Ascension

Our search for Raxxon led us to one of his higher-level flunkies, who was holed up in a nearby factory of some sort. We went around the back in the hopes of ambushing him, but he managed to give us the slip. We gave chase, but as soon as he was out of our sights, he was as good as gone. The building might as well have been built to be a hideout—a maze of branching corridors full of traps. It was also rather well protected, as we ran into armed guards, bugbears, alchemists (who, in fairness, were likely just workers we surprised), and several of their creations, including some sort of awful hybrid—an ugly combination of lion, scorpion, and dragon, easily ten feet long. With each encounter, my companions tussled while I attempted to continue chase, but I confess I was merely choosing what looked like the path of least resistance.

Eventually we found ourselves in some sort of storage room, with a host of paths in front of us. It was, by this point, late evening and the odds of us finding our quarry were slim to none, so we all agreed to give up and start fresh in the morning. We took the stairs up, which led us outside the building, near some sort of workers’ rest shack. We broke in, in hopes of finding some sort of useful information to at least partially salvage the mission. Instead we found a loaded pack belonging to our to-be informant. Norrund tossed the pack, finding several daggers, a sandwich, and a sizable sum of gold. Finnian ate the sandwich and searched the remainder of the room… and discovered whatshisname hiding in a closet.

Upon some very light interrogation, he gave up the location of Raxxon’s hideout—an underwater base outside the city. Access to and from the base is managed through the use of airtight tanks. A shepherd named Oak will be our contact for this. Dwarf-face also cautioned us to avoid Oak’s brother Dirk, for whatever that’s worth. In exchange for his cooperation, we gave him his gold and most of his daggers back. Finnian also owes him a sandwich.

If I can claim to stand for anything, it’s the fight against injustice—against those with power who exploit the innocent. It’s this fight that has led me down the path I walk today. Lords mistaking their wealth for real power, kings overstepping their authority. I even stood against a world-wide hunt against an entire class of people. I’ve weathered a lot of atrocities, but if there’s one thing that still turns my stomach and sets my blood to boil, it’s the wanton abuse of a child. To hear the guard talk, to hear Allen tell of his life, his family, and indeed our entire race, is something closer to animal than person in the eyes of Waterdeeps so-called guards.

We put them down, as befits monsters. The half-orcs fought hard, with malice and a twisted sort of amusement. I’d call them thugs, but that would disrespect proper thugs. I considered letting one live, as a warning to others within their ranks, but one does not spare monsters—they do not comprehend the nature of mercy. We moved the bodies to a less conspicuous location, and Allen introduced me to his brother, Erickson, and daughter Lacey. Apparently humans are not allowed in Waterdeep, at least not freely, but he had been assured he was given pass to conduct business. Either he was lied to, or these “guard” were overstepping their bounds. Either way, for his own safety, I offered to attend to his business on his behalf.

It turns out Allen owes a large sum to a broker named Raxxon—money he needed to buy his daughter out of slavery. We gave him what we could loot from the guards—some of which was already his—and I took his six gold back payment into town, to deliver to Roxxon’s collector, a ratkin claiming the title of Rymkol, the Snatcher. I advised him to keep the rest, as a man in his position often has need of a well-placed bribe.

In the city, we procured rooms at a respectable inn, the Viridian Chalice. I left my meager possessions, including most of my own money, stashed in the room, and set off to the tattoo parlor at the edge of the city, where Rymkol was said to be. I found him the back of a filthy alley, littered with tweakers and burnouts. As I passed, I heard one of them praising death. Likely just too far gone and begging for relief, but the words chilled me all the same. I found the so-called Snatcher in the back, as unpleasant as his race would imply, and after an entirely too-typical intimidation routine, he took the payment without incident. The tweaker was still muttering as I left the alley, so I decided to interrogate him, to find out how crazy he really was. Upon seeing me, he stopped his mantra and exclaimed that “he will be so glad to know I’m here”. I can only hope the gnome who once possessed this body has unfinished business in this city.

I do not know what the others did once we reached the city. I’m certain they all had personal business to attend to. I have more tasks myself, but they can wait until morning. For now, I need a proper night’s rest, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

After meeting back up with Finnian, Kestral and Norrund, we continued on towards Waterdeep. Our employer and travel companion, Milo turned out to be a shadier character than I had expected. I expected he had something unsavory or ill gained that we were transporting, but I never imagined it would be the energy and potentially souls of the dead. It’s a very intriguing idea but Milo was not forthcoming and probably unaware of the uses for these glowing stones.
We, and especially Norrund, managed to convince Milo to leave the stones and leave us alone. Unfortunately he also left with the cart. We used this time to hide the chests full of stones in two different places. Then it was time to head to Waterdeep on foot, but not before a very strange and unfortunate thing happened. One night during watch, i awoke to see a strange young girl standing in/at our campfire. Finnian attempted to attack her but she stopped the blade with what appeared to be minimal effort in the blink of an eye. Then she disappeared and so did Norrund. We searched for traces but found no clues. Kestral offered insight into the origins of the girl whom he called Selena. He said she should have been dead long ago and that she was extremely dangerous. We thought we’d never see Norrund again.
However after almost a week of traveling and soon before arriving in Waterdeep, Norrund miraculously appeared at our camp with stories of meeting a time traveler and some others.
I am so very tired and weary from this journey. I will attempt to make further notes in the future. For now I’m happy to have returned to civilization and escaped the undead that haunted the forest far on the trail. If I never go back there, I would enjoy that, but I do feel like at some point I may need to investigate things there, but I have no intentions to return soon.
For now I hope to at long last attempt to do what I came to this blasted continent for.

Then shadows. Then, missed.

Asleep, I awaken again. Another one of my dream realities? I’m sure of it.

Finnian is on top of me. Strange. Though I’ve heard his voice, I’ve never seen him in here before. Wherever that is. All that I see is a lone hill. At the top, a tree. Shallow graves. A house, in ruin, smoldering.

Finnian speaks to me, but I ignore it. I need no hallucination for company. All I seek are answers.

I approach the hill. The gravesites say Dorin and Alice. There is a symbol. A face, half corrupted? Meaningless, all of it.

The human follows me. He seems as confused as I am. It makes sense, I suppose. SELENA
Suddenly, movement in the rubble. I step back, Finnian stands at my side.SELENA
A girl emerges. Another of the undead.. but different? Not quite. Finnian tries to speak to it. It gives chase. We flee downhill, running along an endless looking path into the fog. I turn to see it right on our heels. SELENA
We awake

Also Blind Terror

Morning of the eleventh day of our journey, tensions were at an all-time high. We were finally all together again, but the half-orc crew that had been hired alongside ourselves was dead, as was a woman Vodarr had saved from Valmire. The accursed dead showed no signs of stopping their pursuit—indeed they seemed drawn to our cargo, which we now believed to be the souls of the dead. At this rate it would not be possible, much less profitable, to protect the cargo. In the interest of fulfilling any part of our bargain, and indeed escaping with our own lives, our only hope was to abandon the chests, give this unresting horde what it desires, and finish the journey alone. The only problem—convincing Milo to agree.

The others wanted to confront him as a group, but I felt that an unwise approach. Milo was already a suspicious and closely guarded man—if he felt we were ganging up on him, he’d only get more defensive. Instead, I hoped that the respect I had gained from him over the past week-and-a-half would give me enough leverage to at least get him to consider our words. In any case, I knew we needed to address things before we reached the crossroads. The zombies wouldn’t be deterred by the rocky terrain—slowed, perhaps, but undaunted in their pursuit. It was only delaying the inevitable, a delay which none of us could really afford.

About midday, I approached him. I reminded him of all we’d been through, and of our agreement to protect him, and told him that in order to do so, he’d need to tell us more. “No questions asked” was no longer sustainable. Stubbornly, he refused to listen to reason, so Norrund joined me and, rather bluntly, revealed our hand—we knew he’d been stealing souls, and that it was the reason for this pursuit. At this, Milo turned, if not hostile, hostile-adjacent. He stopped the cart, left the cart, and stood back a ways from us as he attempted to justify his actions. He scoffed at our claim they were souls, choosing to believe such a thing does not exist, and boasted of his right to own them. Ignorant fool, his nihilistic greed might well doom us all. The others may not have known the specific dangers of his actions, but had the sense to recognize their wrongness. Milo spoke of a red-clad woman, Zephora—the Red Witch he called her—and Finnian revealed he had spoken to her, claiming that the souls we carried were preventing her people from passing properly from this world. Milo scoffed at this, claiming her to be a war-hungry villain, recruiting people in some sort of crusade in pursuit of power. Regardless of his claims, we certainly were not in any position to defy such a power, so the four of us agreed that we would no longer allow Milo to take this cargo to the city. We would be leaving the souls here and taking the cart to the city, with or without Milo.

Finnian ordered Ursa to unload the chests from the cart, but when the automaton reached down to pick up the first chest, the halfling reached into his bag, which I then recognized as a bag of holding (!), and electricity shot from the chests into Ursa, causing him to collapse into unconsciousness. Milo then drew a small longsword and heavy crossbow from his bag, wielding one in each hand (!!) and stated, with the utmost confidence, that we would not be taking his cart. As we braced for battle, Norrund attempted one last desperate attempt at peaceably resolving the issue by magically Suggesting that Milo allow us to remove the cargo and then let us leave. Miraculously, it worked, although his wording missed one crucial detail—Milo let us unload the cart, then set off upon it alone—leaving us to finish the journey on foot.

Once he left, we attempted to explain to Finnian and Vodarr what had transpired, and then set to work hiding the chests. Magical suggestion only lasts for a matter of hours, and once it wore off, we could be certain that Milo would return to reclaim “his” treasure—and likely settle the score with us, as well. As Ursa was still unconscious, he could not help us move the chests. I was, similarly, rather useless in this form, so I volunteered to guard him while the others took the first chest. Vodarr mixed himself some sort of alchemical potion that increased his strength, allowing them to make quick time with the chest. While I waited, I inspected Ursa, and found a means with which to reboot him. When the others returned, we all left with the second chest—taking into the woods on the other side of the road, in a different direction from the first. I covered our trail as we went, until we found a suitable hiding spot. We then doubled back a ways, taking extra care to hide our tracks further, then set off down the road toward Waterdeep.

We traveled the rest of the day without incident. We kept to the trees, far enough off the road to, hopefully, not draw any attention from travelers, but not so deep as to lose the road entirely. We saw no one else, not even our former employer. As darkness fell, we set up camp and arranged watches. I told Norrund to wake me when he was ready to end his watch, but instead I woke to a commotion caused by Finnian, who was engaged with my own worst fears returned to life. A figure ever present in my mind since the appearance of the lady in red and her companions. A figure who was ended hundreds of years ago. A figure I’ve only ever known as a demon, born of desire and grief and the power of a dark god, in guise of a young girl called Selina. Her name on my tongue, unbidden, drawn out by shock, by the vain hope that I might be mistaken. She turned and locked eyes with me—no mistake then—but before she could strike, Norrund reached out to touch her leg, and they both were gone.

Supplimental: Unbeknownst to our narrator, during Vodarr’s watch, he was alerted to a noise in the woods. Not wanting to investigate alone, he woke Finnian and together they discovered it was caused by a rabbit caught in one of Finnian’s traps. Finnian decided, since he was up, he would relieve Norrund on watch and take the time to dress and season his catch.

When he finished, he noticed that Norrund was having fits in his sleep. He went to him to try and rouse him, only to have both of them suddenly appear in an unfamiliar foggy hill. Norrund ignored Finnian, believing him to be part of his dream. They discovered two gravestones along the path they walked, and, at the top of the hill, the remains of a burnt-down house. They poked around the house for a short time, until a shaking of debris caught their attention. They witnessed the rise of a young dark haired girl, clad in a white dress, who moved oddly, almost like a puppet without strings. They fled down the hill and she chased them, gaining every time they turned to look back. As she was just about to make contact, Norrund awoke, to discover the same figure standing over him.

A Brief Summary of Things Otherwise Hard to Read

On the morning of the tenth day of the journey to Waterdeep, the cart was set upon by a vast horde of walking dead, enough to tear down the cart itself. The half-orc, Dokken, challenged them alone, holding them off as the cart turned around and escaped, but was quickly overwhelmed. After a time, the cart set back upon its original path. The horde had dispersed, leaving behind only scraps of the party’s comrade. As the cart arrived in the small town of Valmire, where Finnian, Vodarr, and URSA were supposed to be obtaining a second cart, only Milo, Kestral and Norrund remained.

There was no sign of the rest of the party, save Ursa, who had regained consciousness and was vainly attempting to push himself upright, in spite of his broken arm. Norrund helped him to his feet, and Ursa gave what little information he could as to the exploits of the others. Norrund and Kestral went to investigate the barn where Finnian fell, while URSA and Milo guarded the cart. Kestral found a passageway into a series of underground tunnels. Norrund found a shovel.

The pair descended into the tunnel and began exploring. In the first room they found Finnian, chained to the wall, near death, with a glowing green orb embedded in his chest. Norrund attempted to heal him with a curing wand and, although it did not seem to work at first, Finnian somehow rallied and they unchained him. As Finnian attempted to regain his composure (and don his armor), Kestral explored the other rooms. He did encounter a body of undetermined condition in another room, but as soon as he was sure it was not their final missing party member, he left, without disturbing it.

The tunnel ended at a dead end—a pool of water, so the trio left the way they (or at least most of them) had come. Upon reaching the surface, they discussed what to do. Milo wanted to leave right away. Although there was an intact cart available, there were no animals to pull it. Norrund, however, refused to leave without Voldarr, as the elf was the closest thing he had to a friend on this journey. The group discussed investigating the tower where URSA said he had last been seen—along with a large number of zombies. Kestral volunteered to covertly investigate the area, as he wished to avoid any fights with the creatures, if possible. He fortunately did not run into any dead, walking or otherwise, but he did discover a grappling hook tied to a line leading out and behind the tower, along with the traces of two people leading away from town.

Norrund, Finnian, and Kestral followed the light trail left, they hoped, by Vodarr and possibly a survivor of the town. However, when they saw that the trail led across the river and into the woods beyond, they realized that they could not reasonably pursue them. Norrund proposed a method of getting them to pursue the group, instead, by having URSA sound his alarm signal as the cart traveled. Kestral and Milo objected strongly, as such a signal would also likely attract the attention of any creatures in the woods. The others were persistent, however, and so they reluctantly agreed to try. Milo spoke to Kestral about his concerns and the rogue pledged to him that his number one priority was the halfling and his cargo, even if it came at the expense of his allies. For if the cart fell, they would all be lost to the zombie horde.

The plan, it turned out, worked exactly as expected. Norrund and an injured female companion heard the sound and were able to rendezvous with the cart, as did a large number of zombies. A frantic battle broke out, in which URSA helped Vodarr get his new friend onto the cart, and Norrund helped hold off the advancing horde while Vodarr attempted to reach the cart. However, before he could do so, a new threat broke out from the trees, directly next to the cart—a much larger zombie, wielding a greataxe. Finnian prepared to defend the cart, but before he could even take position next to it, the hulking monster swung its axe down into the cart, cleaving the newcomer in twain and ripping a chunk out of the cart. Recognizing the urgency of the situation, Kestral prepared to order the cart forward, and shouted a word of warning to Vodarr, who had not yet reached the cart. With a final surge of speed, the elf managed to jump on as the cart took off down the road.

They drove as far as they could until the darkness of night and exhaustion set in. As the party prepared for the most stressful watch of their journey, they discussed the situation they found themselves in. Milo was clearly involved with everything that was happening here, although how directly and how knowingly was hard to say. They couldn’t keep pressing forward blindly. Too much had already been lost and it was only a matter of time until a situation arose that they could not escape. They agreed that, come morning, they would confront their employer with questions, and, hopefully, convince him to take action that would stop this madness once and for all.

In over my head...

Have you ever had a dream so unimaginably horrifying that it woke you up, but you didn’t stop dreaming? However, I don’t mean you awoke with a scream in your bed but that you became aware that you were dreaming out of sheer disbelief. Whatever happened or whatever you saw couldn’t possibly be real and you suddenly knew you had to wake up to make it stop. I ask if you’ve experienced this because I’ve been waiting to wake up from this nightmare for days now, and at this rate I’m worried I never will.

We’d just arrived in the town of Valamire. Vodarr, Ursa and I had come there seeking a means of transport as the party was down a wagon. What greeted us was empty homes, quiet streets, and a flaming pile of corpses. Trying our best to ignore the implications of this sign, we elected to get what we could and leave as quickly as possible. Vodarr and I skirted the town’s edge towards a barn, while Ursa patrolled the opposite side. We got to the barn, opened the door and the odor of death crashed over us like a wave. Vodarr couldn’t help but keel over, and I nearly did myself. There were more bodies in this place though not all human. Several livestock littered the ground like festering piles of meat. Still, amongst all the ruin there stood hope: a wagon. It looked to be in good condition, although I was unsure how we would attempt to move it with nothing to pull it. After making sure the dead stayed dead I made my way towards the wagon, and that’s when the darkness rushed up to greet me.

The next moments are all a blur: falling, drowning, a grip on my arm, gasping for breath, and then waking. It took me a moment to remember where I was, why I was damp and why I could barely breathe from the stench. As my brother used to say it would seem I was up the preverbal “shit creek” without a paddle. I can’t think of a more literal definition as I had fallen into the waste pit for the barn. What worried me more was that someone or something wanted me down there. Those hatches have to be manually opened and closed. It was no accident. I also became acutely aware of how dark it was. It was night. I had no idea how long I’d been down there but judging from the dull throb in the back of my head, it could have been hours or even days. What had become of the others? I wanted to call out but I had a feeling I wasn’t alone down there. I donned my shield and halberd (which I was pleasantly surprised hadn’t been lost in the fall) and started to move. I could barely see in that pit but I could make out a dim tunnel with three side doors and a main exit. It didn’t make sense, those passages. Storage in this area would be disastrous, and what other purpose could they serve? Most of me wanted to barrel towards the exit and start shouting for Vodarr or Ursa, but I couldn’t risk it. For all I knew they’d been ambushed too and might very well be beyond one of these doors. I carefully opened the first door. A rough, weak voice cried out. It was neither Vodarr nor Ursa, but a man named Jerrard. Upon closer inspection I found him to be human. He told me of the woman in red, how she came to this town seeking aid, and brought nothing but famine and pestilence with her. I tried to move him but he was in severe pain, though not from whatever illness had ravaged this town. He spoke of the sickness of mankind. He described the symptoms and told me how it felt. I didn’t-I couldn’t know, not now. I had never seen a case of it myself, only heard rumors first through Reiley and then basic training. I told him so and he called my family blessed, something I could never hope to do. I wanted to get him out, but he urged me to go find my friends. He had no idea how close I came to ending him as the judge’s words echoed in my mind. “They will only be a burden.”

I made for the next door and opened it, hoping to find nothing. Instead I found-even still I don’t know what I found. It was a small orb, crystal of some kind, and it glowed a soft, eerie green. I felt drawn to it and, against my better judgement, I placed a hand on it. Voices, whispers echoed in this small room. I looked but saw no one. As I feared, they emanated from the orb. I feared it might be the cause of this town’s sickness and needed to know more about it. Vodarr, Norand, Kestrel, someone would know. I wrapped it in some spare cloth and tucked it away. Finally I came to the third door. This room was pitch black and quiet, though I could just make out a large basin at the far end. It was filled with still, clear water. Honestly, I didn’t even hesitate. I needed to wash off the memories of the last few days, let alone hours spent in this pit. I splashed some water on my arms and face and scrubbed hard to forget the smell that seemed to permeate my armor now. Then I heard it. The door behind me slammed shut hard. I armed myself and turned to face the darkness. I saw nothing, but I clearly felt something. Something primal rose up and burned inside me, telling me to run. I turned around to see a grim figure rising from the water in the basin. Another undead, I hoped. This one was different. It carried a great axe with a purpose and water was gushing from its legs. I couldn’t run. If I turned to open the door it would split me from neck to navel. I remember getting a few good hits in, but after a trip attempt splashed through him like nothing, I lost my nerve to down the monster. My mind went to the gem. Doing my best to dodge the sickening, green tint of the axe, I rolled the gem onto the floor and brought my halberd down upon it. After the second hit it shattered and, much to my relief, the monster fell back to the pool and melted.

Not one to question good fortune, I made a break for the exit. What I saw was not a relief. The town was overrun and all the undead were fleeing. They were headed for the main road. The company had to be warned, but I couldn’t just abandon Vodarr and…URSA! He lay in the middle of the town square. I rushed to him but found him de-powered down. His arm was in shambles. I had to get him on the cart, but my earlier attempts to move it solo had failed miserably. So with as much strength as I could muster I began to drag him to the wagon. As I approached the open door, another sharp fear caused me to turn around. I’m ashamed to say I dropped Ursa out of shock. The little girls stood shadowed in the doorway, but their red eyes were all too clear. I picked Ursa back up and began to frantically back away, when she emerged from the blackness. The woman in red, crimson as blood on white cloth, gazed into me..I don’t know any other way to describe it. I was done. I don’t know how I knew it or why, but even as I scrambled with my companion in tow, I was a dead man. But, if I was to die, I would know why and who would put me in the ground. I layed Ursa down and walked towards them with fake confidence, unsure of who I was or what I was doing. I put on my best soldier voice and asked the woman her purpose. She spoke of helping her people, of them being unable to find the afterlife, and of my ignorance. I knew too little to contradict her and too little still to comprehend what she could possibly mean by all this. She seemed almost more disappointed than angry, like a mother upset at stupid child. With utter distaste on her face, she turned towards the barn, and with a flick of her wrist the two little girls bolted after me. I made one last feeble attempt to offer my services in some vein hope of stopping her, but she didn’t falter and neither did the girls. I reached for my halberd but as they neared me all I could see were the twins, Ciara and Claire, and I knew I couldn’t kill them. I remember trying to run, and then nothing.

They tortured me, for how long I’m not sure. I remember a leeching pain and something like my heart trying to burst out of my chest. I remember the woman in red. She was furious about the stone as she seemed to treasure them. I think she pitied me, although her actions didn’t show it. I remember little but sickening pain, and then blackness. I awoke to Norrund and Kestrel. I wanted to tell them to run. I wanted to tell them to find Vodarr and Ursa and leave me here but I was broken. As I felt the last of my strength waning, I begged Norrund to return my shield to Ma. I begged him to find Reiley. Impossible tasks, an unimaginable burden, but I didn’t care. I regret asking so much of him, but it was all I could think to say as the light faded. The last image I saw was Norrund brandishing a ray of light that was swiftly swallowed up by the darkness. I was brought back to the feeling after I fell into the pit: drowning. I could only think of my family, and all I haven’t done as I accepted what I knew had finally found me: death. The grip took hold of me, and again I broke the surface. I awoke again, suddenly, gasping for breath and so very afraid I would drift between the limbo of the living and the dead forever, when I saw Norrund still brandishing his light. As he did I felt my pain recede, though there’s an ache in my chest I cannot place.

mo' zombies mo' problems

Time runs short.
In an effort to save time for our group I may have lost it all for myself and Finnian.

We had arrived at the nearest town to look for a horse and cart to bring back to expedite our journey and what we found was quite unsettling. Dead corpses of more undead and possibly regular dead were dead in a dead pile of deadness. Nothing seemed to be moving in the whole of the little town.

But we had a task at hand and set about to find something of use to us. A large barn looked to be a promising target, so Finnian and I set about to investigate while URSA scouted quickly around the other side of town.

When we opened the doors to the barn an unearthly stench assaulted our nostrils. The overpowering smell of dead animals and people until now concentrated in one building was so strong I needed to compose myself. Finnian seemed to handle it better and went forward to investigate.
We could see at the back of the barn, past the bodies of humans and horses and livestock, a cart that looked in fine condition. As Finnian passed one of the bodies in the middle of the floor he stabbed at it to make sure it was dead and also not a kind of dead that would attempt to make us as such. It remained motionless in its gruesome silence and Finnian pressed on.

As he moved forward, suddenly the floor underneath him gave way and he disappeared from view. I rushed into the building just as the rancid scent rushed back at me and I lost my composure among other things I had every intention of keeping. I then pressed on to the place Finnian had disappeared at and found a metal door that must have been used to dispose of the refuse that a barn of this sort would generate. I attempted to open it myself and with a shovel nearby but it was stuck and I would need more time to get it open.

Unfortunately this was when my time started to shorten. The other less than dead body on the floor that wasn’t stabbed had risen to come running at me. I barely avoided the first blow and tried to get farther away and fire some arrows into it from my bow. I hit it a few times while trying to get out of range, but soon another rose (or fell rather, from the upper level) to attack me as well. I made my way to the door and left the barn trying to stop or slow the zombies advance with my arrows.
Now outside URSA had arrived to attempt to help, but his lack of combat training and poor luck left him mostly useless. The zombies seemed to hardly notice the mechanized contraption however.
As I tried to keep my distance from the creatures, more seemed to come from everywhere around town, suddenly aware of my presence. To help stay out of reach I ingested one of my concoctions of expedious speed and also one to help heal some of my wounds.
As I circled about out of reach but making zero or less progress in thinning their numbers a voice called out to me and beckoned me into a building attached to the dilapidated stone tower. I thankfully obliged to join another human of sane mind and body in the potential safety of the building.

Inside and door shut, Ashera introduced herself. She was a fine elf woman who looked (and later confirmed) like she had been stuck in this place for a while with meager supplies. She had lost her husband to the undead and was both hoping to find a cure or some way to stop this madness while she remained in the only place she knew. When I told her of the fate of my friend Finnian, her words gave me little comfort for his safety, but also a finality of the fact that there was nothing I could do for him at the time.
I went up to what remained of the tower and scouted around and saw URSA apparently damaged and incapable of righting himself. The undead seemed to still ignore him. I wanted to contact him to tell him where I was and to possibly enable him to procure some sort of help. But as I finally spoke loud enough to get his attention I realized there wasn’t much he could do at the time and I only served to alert the shambling horde of our location more. With the doors as barricaded as they were and the renewed vigor of the horde, it was only a matter of time, short time, until they busted in.
In order to escape we planned to rappel down the side of the tower and escape out of the town. Unfortunately my rope and grappling hook served us little use as we both failed to keep a steady grip on it and both fell most of the way down.
On the bright side, I managed to remain conscious and was able to carry Ashera with her now broken leg with ease with the help of one of my elixers.
We escaped out into the forest and accross the river/stream as night had fallen. I would have liked to go to where Ashera said the place Finnian had fallen into would lead out, but we were too weak and the night too dangerous for us to go all that way around town and hid while I intended to make a splint for her leg.
Before I could however a large undead with a large axe crossed the river and was obviously looking for us. Luckily he didn’t seem to see us and retreated into the river.
Yes into the river. He seemed to almost melt into the water or else enter some stairway under the water and disappear completely in what seemed to be quite shallow water. A most interesting specimen but not one I have time to ponder now.

As we lay here trying to recover our strength and heal our wounds, Ashera asks if I could do anything to calm her nerves and relax her and I think I could use some comforting thoughts as well. She reminds me of my sister Marie, and although I remember her in some way every day, it’s been so long since I had last seen my dear sister that she had become more of an idea or a concept to me and not as the complete person that she was. As I told Ashera a few stories of my sister I thought of them almost as if for the first time. The cheerful memories I had repressed after they became cold reminders of her passing came to mind in almost a new light after so long without pondering them.

I didn’t have or take enough time then and I may be short on time now, but I’ll just have to find a way to make more time for myself and for whatever else I need to do.

Eventually Ashera slept and later I did as well. Hopefully when I awake I will have the time and capabilities to do what I need to do.

As history continues to plagiarize itself

This trip does nothing but affirm the old wisdom about deals that seem too good to be true. In the past couple days I’ve nearly lost this weak body to living corpses, one of our carts has been damaged beyond our means to repair it, the horse pulling it mortally wounded, and our ranks have fallen by more than half. And worse still, it feels as though my own past has been dogging us—a fact which all but ensures further horrors to come.

The morning following the attack I was sore, both physically and otherwise, but despite a heavy fog, I nearly let myself believe things were looking up. Finnian had defended us ably, and, although I completely failed to give him the support I should have, we worked together well enough. As the dwarf, Norrund, played lute, and the elf, Vodarr, attempted to entertain us with his “hand experience”, it almost felt like the early days, with Thorman and Hubert and Kitty, too many lifetimes ago. Undead are a bit more ominous than mere bandits, perhaps, but at least no carts were set ablaze.

During a break in our travels, Milo called out to our group, asking who the leader was. I volunteered myself, without hesitation, as the only one of the group with any real experience in these things. I was joined by the leader of the half-orc crew, a particularly tough looking male named Dokken. He informed us that one of the chests in our cart had been tampered with, and that a single piece of the cargo was missing—from the other chest. He couldn’t say when it happened, as this was his first inspection since the previous morning—in his haste to press forward, spurred by the attack on the road, he had become lax in his inspections. He gave us an ultimatum—find who stole the treasure, a small, smooth stone with a natural glow, and return it, or else no one gets paid. He gave us his word that, if the thief came forward, he or she would merely be dismissed without pay. But if he discovered the thief himself, he would kill them personally. Dokken and I agreed the terms were fair and set off to our separate investigations. I wish I could say I knew my companions well enough that they were above suspicion. Still, secrets are difficult to keep on a journey such as this, so I had little doubt things would resolve themselves. All in all, still quite the minor crisis, by my standards.

Then we hit the trap and it began to become apparent just how little my life has changed.

We had pushed on past dusk—I had suggested we stop to make camp as, between the fog and tree cover, it was nearly impossible to see anything, but the others were afraid of more walking dead and wished to continue as far as possible before stopping. As such, we stood no chance of seeing the rut in the road when we hit it. It was clearly placed there intentionally—the perfect size and depth to cripple a cart, and it worked perfectly, destroying the rear wheel at the axel. Milo had no spare, so, lacking other options, we loaded everything into the single intact cart while Finnian, Vodarr, and Dokken headed off into the woods to track down the loosed horse. We had finished loading everything and were standing guard, wary of ambush, awaiting their return, when we saw them. Norrund was the first, his eyes being accustomed to the dark in a way I could so very recently relate to. All I could see were two pairs of glowing eyes—ominous enough by themselves—but what truly chilled my blood was what Norrund said they were attached to, a pair of ghostly figures—young girls—accompanied by a third, a “grown” woman, in the middle. When he returned, Finnian corroborated this story, claiming to have seen them in the woods the night before, after the attack. They made no move toward us, and as the search party arrived, they retreated back into the trees.

That night I slept ill—too many thoughts stuck in my mind. What significance do these girls play. They’re clearly pursuing us, but have made no move against us as of yet. Is this merely their domain we travel through, or is it something about us that draws them? Our cargo? The book of Nerull? Or might it be me they seek? And what do they signify? Are they connected to the undead we have seen? Could this be the doing of Nerull? Or perhaps Doran himself has returned once again. I shudder to think what he could do if he allied with a fully risen god from the beginning. All questions I cannot answer now, and yet I cannot rid myself of them.

When day finally broke, we made our plans for going forward. A small contingent would walk at speed to the nearest town—hopefully not more than a day’s journey away—and try to procure us a new cart. Meanwhile the rest of us would attempt to move forward on foot, with our cargo on the remaining cart, and meet them on their way back. Norrund had bullheadedly decided to take the entire night’s watch and was completely passed out, so we loaded him on the cart as well. Weighing as little as I do, I opted to ride as well, citing that I would only slow our progress on foot. I did, however, have the ulterior motive of looking for Milo’s missing stone. I tried to suggest that the orcs head to town, providing me with ample opportunity to pursue my investigation, but Finnian was dead-set on going, and he took Vodarr and Ursa with him, leaving only Norrund for me to investigate.

My search of Norrund’s gear turned up nothing of note, so, once he awoke, I chose to confide in him what had happened, and what was at stake. His words did nothing to convince me of his innocence, but they also failed to betray any guilt. Still, he doesn’t seem the type to value riches over his own life, so I hoped that, if he were indeed the culprit, Milo’s warning would at least spur him to replace it at his first opportunity. But it would turn out I needn’t have worried. Shortly after our conversation, we ran across a traveler in the road—the first other living soul we’d seen in nearly a week. He looked quite harried and had nothing but ill to say of the road ahead. We, in turn, left him with warnings of the dangers behind us and we both set off to our own individual dooms.

Later in that day, the two orcs at our rear, Talwe and Baron, caught up to us and asked to switch places. We had been making good time, under the circumstances, and, although I knew it would slow us down, it does us no good to have worn out guards, so Norrund and I agreed. Our two groups had, to this point, kept to ourselves, but in this brief exchange, I felt some small sense of camaraderie with them. Had we been introduced properly from the start, I would at this point have known them for almost as long as the others. I decided that it was perhaps time to start bridging that gap—the way this journey was turning out, it would be better to be able to function as a single unit when necessary.

With Norrund and I guarding the rear, our pace was, indeed, slowed, but it was not a complete setback. After all, if the roads ahead were as bad as the man we met had said, we had no reason to hurry, as our advance party would no doubt be delayed. And, indeed, it didn’t take long for those premonitions to be justified, as shortly after our swap, Dokken came running back to us, shouting for us to get off the road. We do so, just in time for a large shadow to darken the skies in front of us—the unmistakable silhouette of a dragon. Milo expressed shock, stating that the last dragon he has personally known of in this world was nearly a century ago. We all watched it pass over us in awe. Even in Dracos back in the day, where such creatures were more common than not, they have always had a formidable presence—I can only imagine how striking seeing what might be the only one in your lifetime must be.

A while later, some odd behavior within the cart caught Norrund and my attention. The orcs were conversing in their native tongue, when suddenly the male, Baron, muttered something in common, then ducked down out of site. And when he popped back up, he was holding something in his hand. As I crept up to the back of the cart, to get a better vantage, I could clearly see it was a small, unusually smooth stone, about the size of a walnut. In the light of day it was hard to say, but I could have almost sworn it was glowing. They argued about it for a bit, with Talwe wanting him to leave it where it was, but Baron insisted that, having found it, it was his to keep, and he chose to pocket it.

Norrund agreed with me, it seemed likely to be Milo’s missing treasure, although what it was doing at the bottom of the cart, neither of us could say. Norrund proposed the idea of telling them that we saw it, of trying to convince them to bring it to Milo. I felt this was a bad idea, as Baron clearly wasn’t interested in giving it up, and, as they were Dokken’s men (so to speak), I felt it best to leave them to him. So when we rendezvoused to make camp that night, I told him what we saw, and what my suspicions were. I was clear that they found it and did not seem to know what they had, and that I wasn’t looking to cause any trouble for anyone, merely hoping to secure our payment for this job.

Dokken had words with the two of them for, what seems like longer than it should have taken, then came back to me, asking if I was sure of what I saw and if I was certain it was what Milo was missing. I affirmed I was confident in my report, as best as I could be with the information available. Without another word, Dokken returned to his companions and, with notable swiftness, cut them both down where they stood. He then reached into Baron’s pocket and retrieved the stone, which now in the darkness was very visibly glowing, and handed it to Milo, who silently acknowledged it as his missing cargo. The orc then marched off a way down the road to patrol.

Norrund seemed visibly disturbed by what went down, so I gave him a moment to process it, before enlisting his help in moving the bodies. I didn’t want them attracting predators to our camp. Or reanimating in the middle of the night around us, although I felt it best to not mention that possibility at that moment. We drug them to the other side of the road, a small distance into the trees and Norrund took a moment to… mourn, I guess. I tried to reassure him by telling him that this sort of thing never gets easier. A part of me wishes that were true. As we turned to leave, they appeared again, the girls. Seeing them then, for the first time, I was reminded more than ever of Selena. But unlike her, they made no move toward us, instead they merely stared, with those glowing eyes, and eventually faded back into the trees. They seem to appear whenever we encounter the dead, for whatever that is worth.

We returned to camp and Milo confirmed for me his cargo was once again all accounted for and we were square. Although the questions in my mind were as loud as ever, exhaustion from the road was able to overtake them quickly and I fell easily to sleep. Still, they were lurking just under the surface and, when Dokken woke me for watch, I quickly fell back into them, and to dwelling on the eerie similarities to those times, hundreds of years ago for this world, but mere decades for me. Disaster on the road, pursued spectral girls, an abundance of unnatural dead, and preoccupation with the book of a fell god. Am I cursed to live the same story endlessly? Perhaps I was mistaken—this might be Hell I returned to after all.

Subtitle Edition

More questions today. More trouble in our path.

After we camped at night as far from the zombie attack as we could get, we headed off on the trail again.
It was foggy and the trees were very unusual. The branches in the sky reminded me of hands reaching toward the sky in vain. Also of unusual note was the fact that it seemed like as we went that the entire grove of trees was dead. No leaves. It all seemed to be fairly recent as well. It would be most unnatural for such a large amount of trees to be simultaneously killed off in such a large area and so completely. A contaminated water supply? Possibly. Some other unusual force of nature I would assume. My inquiries of any such unusual behavior got replies of no known disturbances. So strange.
It was very foggy. We could hardly see the road. As it grew darker with the tree canopy and all the fog, we debated on wether we should stop or press on. Apparrently the correct answer would have been to stop sooner.
In the road a section of it had been dug away and our lead wagon got stuck in it and broke a wheel. The horse, now freed and frightened ran off into the woods. Now stranded in what by all means appeared to be a trap, we moved quickly to come up with a plan to continue out of the target zone.
We determined that if enough of us walked we could cram the luggage onto the still functioning cart, but only barely. Everything moved pretty quickly and I saw Milo, the caravan leader, talking with others about something and seemed upset, but I didn’t catch about what.
Finnian, one of the (half?)/orcs headed off into the woods to look for the horse that had run off because we could hear it out there somewhere. Tensions were high as we were pretty sure that we were about to be attacked by someone or something at any moment. With the orcs superior nightvision we were able to find the horse.
What we found was not pretty. It had been attacked by some thing or things and was lying in much pain. Finnian moved towards it, comforted it slightly, and then put it out of its misery with a stab to the heart. I was planning to do the same, but as usual Finnian took the initiative and did it quickly while I watched for what had attacked the horse to attack us. Fortunately it did not.
As we followed a trail Finnian had left back to the wagons, there seemed to be some trouble ahead as we came into view. Everyone was on edge and apparently seeing another pair of ghostly figures with glowing eyes.
One thing other thing that was unsettling at this point was that we also heard a horse whinny in the distance much like before. The horse we had found was most definitely finished off, so what did this mean? Was it another horse? Were we wrong and it wasn’t quite dead? Or was it revived in the same way as these people had been turned into zombies? If so who would do such a thing? what would be the point of reviving a horse? Does it just happen around here in this unusual forest? I would not mind getting to safety before finding out.
I think Finnian mentioned seeing them before and was likely what unsettled him after the zombie ordeal. I didn’t see them myself but everyone is extremely on edge.
After we got everything loaded up, we headed out as far as we were willing to go to get away from the past ordeal, and eventually made camp again.
While I tried to sleep for first watch I had a very unusual dream. Or was it a dream? I couldn’t fall asleep and thoughts were racing through my head. Then it felt like I could not move from my bed. I felt like I was dead. As I looked up past the fog and the trees as much as I could, I contemplated life and what it would mean to die. I determined I would very much not like to die, at least not until I have accomplished something great and beautiful. Old memories that I hadn’t thought of for a long time bubbled to the surface of my mind. I must continue this journey.
In the morning we determined that heading on foot the entire way would be a problem and decided that a few of us would head out faster to see if we could procure a second cart to get us back moving at full speed. Finnian, URSA and I moved out for this task.
Along the way we met an old man headed the opposite direction in a raggedy old cart. We asked if we could borrow the cart for our task and of course pay for his services, but he seemed to be somberly on his way. He wasn’t headed anywhere in particular it seemed, but just away from the town he left. From the conversation and a glance in his cart, it looked like he had lost his family and was taking them away to bury them. An unfortunate task, but one that we did not see fit to deprive him of and we continued on.

We finally approached the town sometime later. From a distance the town seemed very still and as some might say, dead and when we got farther into the silent town, we found that to be more true than we expected…

(ominous pause)

Then we found a pile of dead bodies burning as we had the zombies on the road.

or How I Woke Up and Started Fearing the Party

I wake up in a cargo hold. A ship? I’m unsure. It’s quiet here. I head out to the hallway. Long, empty, dark. Few torches line the walls. I take two as I’m wearing nothing but my night clothes.

I snake through the corridors. Pipes run along the walls. Dead elves scattered about. Who are they. How did I get here. Where is here. Questions race through my mind.

A door. I knock. A voice responds. Finnian. The human? He calls out, but not for me. I knock again. Silence. One more knock. I hear the door behind me creak open. Metal grinding on metal.

I awake. Again.

Back in the safe house. I hear wood clatter to the floor. The room is bright. Morning? I look out the window. Darkness. I sit up. On the floor sits two torches.

Impossible.

The rest of the night is sleepless. I sit and stare at the floor.

Dawn comes eventually.

Finnian was the first to come down. He snaps me out of my trance before going outside. I become aware enough to realize I may just be hallucinating the torches. Sleep deprivation. Who knows.

I bend down to take one, for the briefest moment I feel it in my hand before it fades and disappears.

Stunned.

Kestral joins me in the room. I asked him to call for the only person in our unwilling band of brothers that I think I can trust – Vodarr. When they both arrived downstairs I have been confirmed that what I’m seeing is actually there. The torch for meeting is real.

I tell the tale of my dream. The gnome takes the torch. It, too, disappears.

He makes a remark. Seems uneasy. Too eager to leave after this incident.

We’ve been here a few days. Finally setting out.

I’m thankful for this. No longer feels a safe house to me.

We’re to accompany a caravan south. Another city on the way to where we should have been already.

The human was very eager. Ready to go. Too ready. After last night, he makes me uneasy.

The leader of the caravan introduced himself. He also introduced the three half-orcs we’d be traveling with. They seemed near civilized.

He had little to say about our trip. Guard the caravan – it contains our pay. Don’t touch anything. Don’t trust anyone else – not even the other mercenaries.

We set off. The first few days were uneventful. Vodarr, making elixirs of sort. I, tinkering and adjusting my tools. Conversation was lacking, but more than nonexistent. I grow tired of Fnnian’s ignorance of the world.

On the third day – in a narrow path through a stand of trees – we saw a man in the distance. Standing in the road. Unmoving.

Our walking shield and the disoriented gnome took the mech and went up to investigate. Vodarr and I hung back… with the cargo. To watch the Orcs, Mostly.

Suddenly, an alarm. The robot. Charging at us. Incredible speed. Everyone distracted. The man had attacked. More were pouring from the woods as Vodarr and I made our way forward.

By the time we were not even halfway there, they lay in ruin. Slaughtered. Our men – nary a scratch.

The undead.

That’s what they encountered. Some dark necromancer is lurking around. Shambling corpses. Could be anywhere. We will need to keep more vigilant.

We set back out, making camp comfortably far from where we had our run in with the walking dead.

New era, same old shit

My first day back on Terra was pretty much a wash. This new body is strange—just similar enough to what I’m familiar with that all the tiny little differences are readily apparent. Even the most simple of reflexes require my direct attention—and skills that had become as natural to me as breathing are now frustratingly beyond my reach altogether. And as irksome as these physical issues are, perhaps worse is the social one. This body’s former owner had friends—so far only the three I rescued in the caves, but who knows what other friends and relatives could be out there. The three of them are having enough trouble understanding what happened, having witnessed it firsthand, I can’t possibly explain this to a family. My focus has to be on the mission—every day is more time for him to gather power and set plans into motion.

But, before I can do anything, I have to get my bearings. Figure out where I am, what this world has become. There’s something about this world—it’s restless in a way I’ve never seen anywhere else. Every time you leave, it sets out changing things. And, more immediately, I need money. Clearly if this gnome had anything on him, it was lost, either in the shipwreck or his subsequent capture. Without a copper to either of our names, I can hardly expect to accomplish much. Fortunately the local military appears to have been mobilized to help rescue us—granting me free passage to the nearby town of Shadowdale. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s a start.

And I have luck on my side, although I’ve yet to determine if it’s good or ill. One of the trio, the human, is a member of the military, and was granted private lodgings away from the other refugees, a privilege he chose to share with the others, myself included. I hadn’t planned on maintaining contact with these people—they seem ill-equipped to deal with what’s coming, and it seems cruel to continue exposing them to the living corpse of their ally—and yet they persist in their friendliness, offering not only seclusion, but the chance to learn a bit of what is new in the world. Perhaps sparing them from the coming conflict is not a choice that belongs to me, perhaps their fate was sealed when they witnessed a god renewed.

The second day was only marginally more productive than the first, but it was a solid step. The morning began with the disappointing realization that the military’s safehouse was as livable as the military itself. No food, no clothing, nothing beyond the most basic furniture. Such is my life, that even a single meal and a clean pair of clothes is too much to hope for. I had just set my mind toward procuring breakfast when a commotion broke out on the street—a robbery from the sounds of it. As if on cue, soldier boy, who had introduced himself as Finnian, leapt into action, bolting out into the street to pursue. The dwarf, Norrund, ran after him to watch. Why is always my lot in life to fall in with the petty hero types; what sin did I commit to deserve this? Of course, I know what it is—it’s the one I’ve yet to give up.

They returned in time, apparently victorious, and, surprisingly enough, with something to show for it—an invitation to dinner from the former victim. Over breakfast we discussed our plans. Norrund and Vodarr were independently bound for Waterdeep, and Finnian was going to accompany him while waiting for orders. It seemed as good a place as any for me to begin, so I agreed to accompany them as well. Once there I can hopefully find a lead, although I haven’t the slightest idea how to begin looking. In the time before evening we all attended business of our own. What the others did does not concern me, but, for myself, I made several gold doing odd jobs (following a generous loan from Vodarr), updated my wardrobe, and cleaned myself. I’ve done a lot of distasteful things in my time, but cleaning a strange body has to be among the most unpleasant. The less time I have to dwell on this predicament of mine, the better.

When evening arrived, we met at the safehouse, then traveled together to meet our host, who turned out to be an especially odd old gnome who called himself Tungsten. It was an opportunity to learn a bit of my new companions, and of Terra itself. Finnian, it seems, has strong ties to his family, a strong sense of moral obligation, and is quite disciplined. I suppose he might remind me of myself in many ways, had things not all gone to Hell. In addition, I’ve noticed that people in general seem to regard Finnian somewhat usually. I wonder if there’s some stigma associated with his military organization. Norrin is a tradesman who gets quite passionate about his interests and seems to have an unusually vast degree of knowledge about the world. Vodar is a scholar of some sort and, while he didn’t tell us terribly much of him, he certainly had a lot of questions. Truth be told, I found him a bit nosy. For my part, I introduced myself as a bookish historian. It seemed like a decent enough cover, explaining both my esoteric knowledge of the past and complete lack of knowledge of the present.

Tungsten, meanwhile, was a mechanist, an inventor, who had built, among other things, an automaton. I’ve had some experience with such things before but what he showed us was not what I expected. His creation, who asked us to call him URSA, while still obviously manufactured, was much more humanlike in appearance than the constructs of 800 years ago. Apparently he functions much like humans as well, even to the point of requiring sleep at night, which to me, seems to defeat the purpose of creating such a thing to begin with. In any case, it was because of URSA that he invited us here. Apparently Vodarr mentioned his travel plans, and Tungsten would like us to take URSA with us, as a field test of his capabilities. The others seem quite willing and, while I’ll admit to having my doubts about such advanced and… untested technology, I am rather intrigued by him as well.

After eating and conversing long enough to be polite, I excused myself, wanting to visit some local shops before they closed. If we are to be traveling in the morning, I need to be prepared, and I would much prefer to have provisions than gold with me on the road anyhow. I do not know how long the others remained—after making my purchases I returned home to further pore my one and only lead—that accursed tome from the temple—but I fear I won’t find any answers tonight, as even now I find myself drifting off. I’d best rest up now while I can—things have just barely begun.

I had hoped for more from the outside world than this. I guess I had convinced myself that Reiley was wrong and most of what I heard of Lilinith’ri or the Tera beyond it was a fairy tale. My delusion was able to last through basic training but now, here, on blood stained sand after watching hundreds of people drowned or shot and seeing horrors I still can’t believe, I’m fully aware of how little I know.
The Lilinith’rin guard were here. I should have felt relieved, even welcomed, but I only felt like a child who wants to help carry something they could never hope to lift. A judge was here. A judge. Of all the bedtime stories I never thought would prove true, this one beats the rest. He wore the Lilinith’rin red, reflected by his majestic armor. The stories did him little justice. After speaking with him I couldn’t tell if I was a mere annoyance or a curiosity, and I was unsure which I would prefer. The guard started distributing food and medical care, to most. The four humans that survived the attack, including the boy I got off the ship, all were left alone. Ignored, would be the more proper statement. After getting my back flayed open by whatever we found down in the depths of this place, I knew I had an obvious need for some help. I gathered what provisions I could and gave them to my people. My people. Another thing I can hardly believe I needed to say. The captain of the guard informed me that the slaves aboard the ship had been owned by two half-orcs currently making their way northward. I quickly found out that was all the help he had to offer. I wanted to follow them. I wanted to track them down and make them talk. I knew they’d have a manifest, a list of their “cargo.” I didn’t see Reiley among the bodies but there were too many for me to check. I needed to be sure. One of the survivors said he would come. They were the only ones who would care. Before I left I informed Vodarr of my plan. I couldn’t ask any who I met aboard that boat to come. They’d been through enough and needed no more torture on my account.
I saw the guard draw their swords as I started to return to the cave. I saw the terrified look on the boy’s face. I saw a flash of steel and heard nothing: no cries of protest, no pleas for mercy. It was as if the guard had simply been ordered to put some crippled cattle out of their misery and the cattle had knowingly submitted. I had been told of other survivors they had encountered on route here. Now I knew their fate. There was nothing I could have done. Protest my country? Defy a judge? I’m not that stupid. That’s what I keep telling myself at any rate. That’s how I sleep at night.
When I asked the judge why he calmly said it was for the good of the country. Those people would have been a burden on society. They would have contributed nothing. Maybe he was right but that doesn’t mean they didn’t deserve the chance to prove him wrong. Before I was able to make my way, the judge ordered me into his private carriage. I was to go to Shadowdale with the others. I could be leaving Reiley behind, one of the only thoughts that almost had me screaming at the judge for being so impassive, but I knew there was no arguing my point. Until I had his level of power and influence, I would only be a pawn. I sat in furious silence the entire ride. Upon arriving I was told where I would be staying. Good thing I’m used to taking orders by now. It was a dusty, unused safe house. Nicer than what I was used to honestly. My thoughts went to the Vodarr, Norrund and Chadwick. I had past where the refugees would be staying on my way here and I figured they might appreciate some nicer accommodations. After a quick visit, they all found their way here. I offered up the only bed, as I have trouble sleeping in one anymore. We didn’t speak of much for which I was grateful but I was more thankful for being with a group who didn’t stare at me like an animal in an exhibit.
Tomorrow I make for Waterdeep. That was where I was called to upon seeing the vessel safely through. Now that that is moot point it seems the only option. I hope these few will join me. Few strangers would have stood by me and helped in such perilous circumstances as we’d seen today. I think that speaks for itself. Regardless of who they are or where they come from, they’ve earned my respect. We shall see what tomorrow brings. May the winds bring favor to Ma and the twins and shield them from harm.

...the hell!?

Things are worse than I could ever have hoped. I had expected him to be waiting for me, but I didn’t think he would be so prepared. I should have suspected when I saw his servant, the osyluth, but I was thrown by the children. Once again, my weakness for others was my undoing. I should have known when we found his temple. That book of his taunted me with its promise of answers, but I didn’t dare touch it. I was afraid to get close to anything of his, and yet I barely hesitated from walking right into his final solution. I should have turned around right then and there. I should have left those kids to die.

Now the god of death is risen in full, in a world ill-equipped to handle him. The last god who awoke on Terra very nearly conquered it. I’m sure the final one believes there is no one who can stop him now. But if so, he is mistaken. Because he left me alive. And he has something that belongs to me. And I will see it burn before I allow him to claim it in full.

Return to the Tragedy

Year 2429 – Saranday, September 20 – The Ritual of Judges

A cliff side glows orange as the setting sun hits it, shining brightly on a colossal mark that appears to have been etched into the cliff wall. The mark appears to be a word written in ancient draconic tongue and has never been deciphered. At the edge of the cliff stands a human male with brown hair and a goatee, about 40 years of age, regal with his golden ceremonial robes.

Five soldiers clad in large, elaborate silver armor, Judges of Terra, march up to the man on the cliff, passing an old monument without care of it. Each step is in sync with one another, the armor making little noise as they approach the man. Behind them, the city seems empty. And once the five reach the man, they kneel before him.

“Osylith, do you believe in the afterlife?” His gruff voice speaks with understanding and confidence. The man clearly asks the question not looking for an answer.

One of the soldiers responds. “My Sovereign, over half a century ago a god appeared on our world and then vanished. He hasn’t been seen since. I most certainly believe in the afterlife.”

“I am not your Sovereign,” the man replies with regret, “but we will march together in heaven.” He takes out an old, rusted dagger presses it to the neck of the soldier who had spoke. “In heaven…” Blood spills out from the neck onto the dry rock below them.

One by one, he takes the dagger to their throats and cuts. Five bodies now lay before him, blood pooling underneath him and running off the cliff face down to the glyph. He closes his eyes to stop the tears from running down his cheek. “In heaven.”

Year 2440 – Winesday, April 27 – Norrund’s Dream

Norrund Isanæ wakes in a cold cabin. There isn’t much in here: an empty table, chairs, no fireplace or kitchen. There’s a ladder that leads to a walled-in loft with a door covered in old fabric. Outside is snow and lots of it. Fir trees line a path to the town that leads up a hill. It’s a quiet night with even more snow softly falling to the ground.

This certainly isn’t the ship the dwarf has been sailing on for the past two days.

“Hello there! Who might you—OH!! What have we here!?” delights a human peeking his head out from the fabric above. He grabs the ladder and slides down. His features are a sharp contrast to his tousled brown hair, and his face lights up with expressiveness when he approaches the bearded dwarf. “You’re unique, aren’t you?”

Norrund stares quizzically at the man, not responding. Before either can get a word in, Norrund blinks and finds himself lying in his hammock, warm with sweat dripping from his brow and into his beard. The tinge of saltwater hits his eyes as he blinks them awake. It all must have been a dream. A splash of water on the face and an early stretch should shake the feeling.

But that dream seemed very real…

Year Unknown – Running Out of Options

“You’re running out of options,” says the githzerai, Muu’var to Kestral. Muu’var has served as an advisor since Kestral abandoned the Material Plane upon it being locked away from Planar Travel. He would never take on communicating with a lowly human being, at least not normally, for those of the Astral Plane walk with the dead gods and are far superior to any other race. But his relationship with Kestral was built out of desperation, and now he needs to make sure that the remaining god does not awaken.

Kestral is the host to the remaining god, and with Muu’var’s help the two are looking for a way to prevent his return. But they’ve expended most options.

“There is one remaining lead, but you won’t like it.” Muu’var’s hesitation is clear; this isn’t a plan he wants to pursue. “Travel to the first level of Hell. By going to his home you may find something.”

Kestral had no argument. It was a place he never wanted to return to, but it had been a few years without any other leads. And with much hesitation, he prepared to journey back to hell.

Year 2440 – Winesday, April 27 – A Party’s Party

Vodarr Tallus’s sea sickness finally abated. Could the five day oceanic journey finally be looking up for the elf? He hoped so. Anything would be better than being holed away in the cabin patiently trying to ignore the rocking of the waves. He gingerly gathered his things and took to the main deck to feel the breeze on his face. This was the first time he really got to take a look at any of the crew and passengers on this ship aside from boarding, and then he was too worried about the possibility of getting seasick.

The ship was a large cargo vessel sailing from Torin to Lilinith’ri. Vodarr found his way on to pursue his studies in a land he had not yet visited. It helped that he didn’t have much tying him to a specific place, which seemed to be the case for many of the other passengers and crew members. Up on deck, Vodarr caught the attention of a gnome scientist who introduced himself as Chadwick Songbreeze with an iguana companion Lazlo. The two seemed to make quick friends after the two realized a shared passion, and thus they planned to have drinks in the evening below deck.

Vodarr and Chadwick enjoyed each other’s company at dinner rather well. Both were so used to the lonely journey filled with solitary meals in their cabins. After their meal, Chadwick requested that they find a couple more people for their drink-filled party. Chadwick would seek out the company of the only human on-board, a young guard that had been stationed on deck throughout the trip. Vodarr would ask a dwarf who isolated himself from others to focus on his trinkets. Niether Chadwick or Vodarr were very persuasive in their invitations, but both of their guests accepted and met the two at their table.

The dwarf, Norrund Isanæ, slammed a coin pouch on the table. “First round is on me,” he insisted. The human guard, Finnian Alastar, let on that he would drink but not too excess. He still had a job to do the next morning and a hungover state would not suit him, though his reservations to alcohol seemed to be much more than just work-related. The four swapped stories over drinks, with Chadwick convincing everyone to keep the conversation away from work.

“I’ve been lost in my work all my life, and it’s kept me away from making any friends,” spoke Chadwick as the group departed for the night. “I just want you all to know, even if we don’t see each other after reaching Lilinith’ri, that I’ll remember this evening. Today has been one of the best days I can remember because of all of you.”

Year 2440 – Firesday, April 29 – Sinking Ships

Two mornings after the great evening, the ship is expecting to arrive in Lilinith’ri by the evening. Finnian takes his post early in the morning to the greeting of a thick fog over the ocean water with very little wind. He waits patiently, watching as the crew rises to take their posts. Soon, his new friends arrive on deck. The gnome, Chadwick, seems particularly tired; something about hearing women screaming in his dreams.

Finnian and Vodarr both notice the Captain and a crew member pensively looking out behind the ship. Finnian heads over to the railing to look, Vodarr follows, and the elf hears a hum off in the distance. It isn’t long after he hears this that the Captain announces to everyone on deck that passengers must return to their cabins. Confused, Vodarr, Norrund, and Chadwick head down as Finnian prepares for trouble.

Pirates are coming.

Two ships outfitted with Osylith-created steam engines race to the cargo ship, weapons at the ready. Finnian raises his shield and gets behind it when a few bullets from a rifle pass right by his head. The warrior quickly retreats to an entry way to protect the passengers and to stop the pirates from making their way to the cargo deck.

Meanwhile, Norrund accompanies Vodarr and Chadwick as they go to their rooms to fetch their things. Chadwick has some supplies down in the cargo deck though that he desperately wants to procure. The three hurry through the passenger deck and down to the cargo hold. Amidst all of the rumbling from cannon fire hitting their ship, and a few tumbles, they find their way to Chadwick’s locked storage room. While he gathers his supplies, Vodarr and Norrund hear crying at the end of the hall. Upon checking the door, Vodarr finds out there are 200 people locked in the cargo hold and water is starting to rush in. Vodarr reaches into his Heward’s Handy Haversack of Life and pulls out a saw and a crowbar and attempts to break down the locks or break through the door. Norrund and Chadwick do not want to stay below deck in case the ship begins to sink, but Vodarr won’t leave without saving the people. They finally decide to leave Vodarr for now, hoping that he’ll come to his senses before it is too late.

The pirate ships continue to circle around the cargo ship, not making any effort to board. Finnian is confused by this, but has to get back even further as an airship flies in and fires on the cargo ship. Norrund, running up and being presented with the issue, has a sudden realization. The people locked in the cargo hold are human slaves, and these pirates are anti-human activists looking to kill them all. Finnian curses loudly and runs down below deck to attempt to save them before the humans don’t have any chance of survival by being pulled under with the sinking ship.

Finnian yells at Vodarr to move and he chops at the door with his halberd. The ship turns over onto its port-side just as Finnian breaks through the door, water rushing out of the cargo hold and into the hallway. Human bodies rush forth, forcing their way through the doors into other rooms. Wanting to save at least one human, Finnian grabs a child that surges forth from the doorway and into his arms. Chadwick and Norrund jump off the ship into the water, Vodarr and Finnian carrying the child right behind them.

The airship makes one run by the cargo ship, blasting it with its cannons, sending the ship up in flames and knocking out the survivors.

Year 2440 – Calistriaday, April 30 – Return to the Tragedy

Painful screams rang across the coast. It’s as if you fell asleep into a nightmare.

Finnian is foced awake to see the captain’s leg amputated by one of his subordinates. A large chunk of wood had impaled the leg and there was no hope of it being removed. The captain’s cries were both of incredible pain and immense relief that he may continue living. Finnian himself appears fine though, tightly gripping the child he saved. One of the crewmen takes watch of the boy as Finnian goes to assist other survivors.

Norrund comes up onshore and sees that Vodarr is resting by a large cave entrance. When Vodarr wakes, all he remembers is that Chadwick had pulled him up here. Other crewmen warn Finnian that the gnome had entered the cave, so Finnian takes the human child to take him up to a safe place at the cave and joins Norrund and Vodarr., who both worry for the gnome since there isn’t any sign of him.

Together, the three of them, Finnian carrying the child, venture into the dark cave. A trail of blood with small footprints imprinted sends them into worry, so they quicken their pace. The cave is narrow and goes deep. A quick battle with a set of cave fishers warns them of the dangers in here. The group slows their pace, but is nervous at the lack of any sign of Chadwick.

After a short hallway, they approach an empty room. Finnian plans to march on when he’s immediately intercepted by an Osyluth (bone devil) which appears before him. The osyluth lashes at Finnian only to disappear, nearly finishing the young warrior off, when a shadow appears and strikes the bone devil dead. “Kestral,” responds the shadow when asked his identity by Finnian. Kestral’s skill was immense compared to any of them, and on the chance they ran into another osyluth, the three thought it better to partner with this man to more quickly find their friend.

They continued through the cave with Kestral vanishing before them, but assuring he was there. The next room they came across was a man-made chapel; a few rows of pews sat before the pedestal holding a book. The room sends a shiver down their spines. Religion had been abolished for hundreds of years. What was a chapel like this doing so far down in a cave? Each adventurer approaches the pedestal to look at the book on display to see skull with a scythe adorn the front cover, and only one of them knew what it meant. Kestral warn the group not to touch it, and as they leave the room he stabs the book through with a dagger.

A long, winding hall takes them to a final room. An etching on the floor looks to be the same as the book, and a pile of twenty-to-thirty human bodies from the wreckage lay in a pile to the far left. Finnian sprints into the room, ignoring everything else to save Chadwick who is chained up to the wall. A form appears before him halfway, forcing him to come to a halt. Expecting to see another osyluth, he’s surprised when he sees Kestral come into view.

Kestral trips Finnian to the floor and looks to Chadwick. The rune on the floor begins to radiate a green light and a green aura comes forth from the gnome. The gnome falls limp. Lifeless.

“And now, I shall awaken!” Kestral yells out, emitting a similar green aura from his body that surges forth into Chadwick. Kestral’s dark cloak becomes a shadow that envelops the room in complete darkness, and when the light returns he is nowhere to be seen. Finnian chops Chadwick down only to be met with a very sour, out-of-character gnome.

The party having now rescued Chadwick leaves the cave as quickly as possible. Upon arrival to the entrance, they are met with congratulations as all of the survivors have met up at the cave mouth to avoid being seen by any pirates. They are happy that the gnome is safe, and it isn’t too long till a caravan bearing the sigils of Lilinith’ri ride forth to the party.

Growing Deadlier

I look in the mirror and I no longer see myself. This isn’t metaphor—my face is truly no longer my own. He is trying to claim my body for himself. I do not know how he can do this—I had hoped that the binding of Terra would have severed, or at least blocked, our connection, but somehow it persists. If sealing his world cannot break this bond, I fear there is nothing that will allow me escape. My only option is to persist in my original mission. I must kill the final god. I do not know how I can do this now—we are on opposite sides of an unbreakable wall, but somehow I must find a way. I have seen so much of the worlds that are out there—I cannot allow Him to ruin them all. I need to find a way to return home, to return to His hell. Either He will die at my hand or we will languish in His prison together for all eternity.

Moonfall

Following the leads I found led me to the plane known as Minor where I met a group of adventurers known as The Savior’s Hand. The end result of that encounter has become known across the planes as the Moonfall Incident. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. What you’ve heard is very far from the truth.

Survival Mode

The next world I landed on was uninhabited. At least what I saw of it was. The portal opened to the middle of a damn forest. At least I figured out what Soni’s bracelet did pretty quick—it seemed to be some sort of traveler’s aid, reducing the need for food and rest, and protecting from all but the most extreme weather conditions. Figures—all those times she needled me for shivering when we were stuck in the mountains with no supplies—she was cheating.

The bracelet wasn’t perfect, however, at least not on this world. I still needed to eat, which meant I got plenty of chances to practice a skill I’d never really bothered to work on—hunting. Stealthily killing things, seems like I’d be a natural, right? Well, it turns out stalking animals is different from stalking people, and I’m only really talented at one of those. Still I managed to get good enough to survive, and managed to cobble together a halfway decent shelter as well. But I couldn’t stay in one place too long. I had no intention on spending the rest of my days stranded in a forest. Sonitri was certain that the portal wasn’t random. It led here specifically, and there had to be a reason.

I spent several months looking for that reason. There’s not much to tell about it, really. Eventually the forest gave way to plains, which gave way to a desert, which led to an ocean. It was an at-times beautiful and wildly diverse world, it just had nothing going on. There were monsters, at night, sometimes, but nothing I wasn’t capable of defending myself against. In all likelihood, I’d still be there if it weren’t for more dumb luck, the one-and-only sign of intelligent life I discovered there. Or rather, death. The corpse of some explorer. I was certain he or she was from off-world, as the few intact rations in her pack contained several magical scrolls, most of them depleted, but one still intact, with the spell for planar travel. It took me weeks to decipher the scroll—drawing on ancient memories and deciphering runes from context in the would-be explorer’s spellbook. But somehow I managed to pull it off. And with no outside interference from horrible gods, I successfully transported myself to the one world I knew with any certainty—the closest thing I have now to a home. The Astral plane.

In Case of Trouble

This world is, in many ways, unlike anything I have ever seen before. Blue men and women who bleed water and claim to be reborn upon death, in an endless cycle. Rivers of thick molten silver that slowly poison any who dare enter. Creatures that turn to stone when startled or threatened. And yet, for all that is different, there is so much that remains the same. People with power lording over those without. Good men and women punished for the actions of bad. Senseless violence, carried out for the pettiest of reasons. Injustice of all sorts, both natural and man-made, carried out against those who cannot resist it. And that’s where I come in. I am a stranger to your world, yet I care for it as though it were my own. I am a refugee, a survivor, the only human known to this realm. My name is Kestral, and I am here to help.

I resumed my old practice as the Man Who Solves Problems. If I’m going to be stuck here for a while, I might as well find something to do. It took a while for business to pick up, of course—who’s going to seek out a strange-looking man who knows impossibly little about the world for help?—but I was sure a little freelance work would go a long way. My first case was simple, at least on paper. Bunch of kobolds, or their local counterpart, at any rate, been raiding a nearby city and the king’s guard refuses to do anything about it without some special compensation. Enter the hero. I’ve fought automatons, vampires, even helped defeat a god. Surely some overgrown lizards won’t be a problem. And all for a little free room and board at the local inn. Win-win.
Except, turns out there’s a law against vigilantism in this country. King doesn’t want his citizens getting hurt doing something outside their station. Or more likely is worried that if his subjects get too autonomous they’ll question what exactly all their taxes are funding, since it sure isn’t public works or national defense. And all those people who suddenly found their kobold problem neatly resolved sure were quiet when the guards decided it was suddenly time to start doing their job.

But I’ve wasted enough time in jail and if the kobolds’ witch-queen and her twin barbtongues weren’t a problem for me, some overpaid and underworked watchmen sure as hell wouldn’t be. So, strike one on the grand heroics then. But I did fix the problem, and I didn’t kill any of the guards, so when the story of a dangerous insurgent spread throughout the kingdom, it was followed by another story, quieter, yet somehow easier to hear. A story of roguish intrigue and swift action, with just a hint of rebellion. It was a popular story. And when a man turned up in a nearby city pub two weeks later with a fresh spin on the story a strong resemblance to the recently circulated wanted posters, no one left to find the night watch. But just about everyone volunteered their own stories when the man had finished, each one carrying a common theme—problems the king’s guard just didn’t seem to be concerned about.

A number of those stories were, more or less, the same story. Entire families, killed. No, not just killed, slaughtered. Used to be this sort of thing would happen from time to time. Isolated incidents going back years. Everyone typically just blamed it on wild dogs or something. But lately it had been happening more frequently. And with a common twist—in every family, one of the kids would be missing.

I got as much information about the killings as I could—locations, family backgrounds, parents’ occupations, anything that might connect them, but it all seemed to be random. So I tried following up on the missing children, but again, I turned up nothing. I might have had to give up were it not for one thing, sheer dumb luck. One thing I’ve noticed in my travels is that magic from my homeworld doesn’t always behave the same on other planes. On some they’re so weak they’re almost mundane. On others they simply behave differently. On this world, the Skin of the Vampire, the sheer cloaklike material given to me by the vampire lord, seemed to enhance my senses in addition to my physical capabilities—but only at night. So when I was skulking around a back alley one night, just wandering somewhat aimlessly, I was able to hear a faint struggle from several blocks away. Screams and an animal-like snarling.

I found the source of the commotion, too late to help. A large, vaguely wolfish creature was standing over the eviscerated corpses of the family that had, until moments earlier, lived there. Hearing me approach, the creature turned and fled the scene. I gave chase, endeavoring to stay out of sight. Eventually it led me to the entrance of an underground tunnel in an abandoned part of the city. Inside was rows of cages containing beastial-looking humanoids—some ferociously raging against their prisons, others laying listlessly, looking somewhat emaciated. The beast I had been chasing ran to the back of the room, too dark for even my heightened vision to see. I crept after it, hoping the other creatures’ reactions wouldn’t give my presence away. As I got closer, I realized the beast was no longer there, instead two humanoid figures were standing there—a man and a child. The child was naked and as my vision focused, I realized he was covered in blood, but not wounded in any way. The man was speaking to him, softly in a language I didn’t understand. After a moment he reached out to the child, who flinched in fear, not unlike a cornered dog, and ushered him into a cage like those of the beastoids.

Then it clicked. The children hadn’t simply been kidnapped. The children were the killers. Something was causing children in this town to turn into beasts and slaughter their families. And this man was responsible. He didn’t see me coming. He couldn’t have. In the darkness I am but a shadow myself. I could have simply stabbed him then and been done with it. But that would be sloppy. Unprofessional. I’m not here to avenge, I’m here to resolve the problem. I need to know what he’s doing, why. So instead I confronted him.

He laughed, told me I had no right to stop his experiments. They were sanctioned. I told him I didn’t care. Then I cut off his left hand. Which I was hoping would be intimidating, but he didn’t terribly bothered by it. It did convince him, though, that wasn’t willing to leave quietly, so we skipped right to the fighting. He almost gained the upper hand when he opened the cages and set the starving beast-children on me. But then he blew it by boasting that his serums were irreversible, which removed any compunctions I had about killing them. He also revealed that he was working alone, on a grant from the palace itself, on a way to increase the strength of their soldiers. Which removed any compunctions I had about killing him. Losing a hand may not have bothered him, but losing a head was a different matter.

Looking through his supplies, I found detailed notes of his experiments. So detailed, I was pretty sure anyone in the city, regardless of their loyalties, would take issue with them. I also found a number of concoctions, most of which I destroyed, but two, labeled “tissue regeneration” that I decided to hang onto. I also dealt with the final child, the one I had followed. He looked fully human, but moved and reacted like a sick animal. I did what I could for him.

After delivering the alchemist’s notes to the city guard, I moved on, not wanting to gamble on their continued goodwill. As I visited other cities, I started to notice a trend of particularly awful behavior, all allegedly sanctioned by the palace itself. As I journeyed, I worked my way closer to the capital city. The closer I got, the more heavily guarded the cities became, but the word of my exploits traveled faster than I did, so as the cities became less accessible, the citizens became more helpful.

Eventually, I made it to the capital. There was a big confrontation with the king, in his own palace. His traitorous advisers were exposed and their complex villainous plots defeated, and the king swore to abandon his plans for war and instead spend his money to improve his kingdom, and he gave me his blessing to travel freely within his kingdom as a friend of the court. It was all very boring and not at all worth expanding on in any way.

With unrestricted travel and no more need for anonymity, I finally set up shop like I had planned to, at least in a sense. At this point, my reputation was already taking on the shape of a local legend, so it made more sense for me to play to that and take a more nomadic approach. I seem to be drawn to trouble these days.

At one point, I even thought I might have had a lead on my own quest. A samsarin cleric named Sonitri, who claimed to have been bestowed great power by her god Ramna. Her lead seemed promising—as she had access to powerful magic she had no way of learning, and claimed knowledge of events long forgotten, much of which we were able to verify in time. But typically, it led nowhere useful. Ramna was no god, merely an extraordinarily powerful sorcerer with absolute control over the writers of his day. He was also a past life of Sonitri, whose magic and memories had persisted across nearly a dozen rebirths with an unprecedented degree of strength. Were it not for my experiences, and the existence of the astral plane, my travels among the planes of reality would do much to convince me that the gods themselves never even existed. I am the closest a god has come to these parts in untold lifetimes.

Despite our findings, Sonitri remained an ally—she valued the truth above the fulfillment of her desires, and for that she will always have my respect. Together, we leveraged everything we had discovered together to become semi-official fact-finders, or debunkers, as she liked to call us. Our work wasn’t always appreciated—the truth so often unappealing and undervalued—but I like to believe that our efforts made this world a better place.

So when we discovered the portal, I actually considered staying. I don’t think I would ever feel at home on that plane, but I had found a purpose in it all the same. Was that something to so casually abandon for the complete unknown? Sonitri didn’t want me to go. She enjoyed being seen with the strange pale man, the local hero for hire in case of trouble. Telling people about all the incredible alien things I’d shared with her about my world (many of them even true). She’d never admit, but she’d miss me—I could see it in her face, as she urged me to leave. She knew little about my true quest, but she knew I had one, and she knew no answers to it lay on her world. The only way for me was forward.

I left her my Boots of Escape as a parting gift. Their range on this world was significantly farther than usual, and I was sure she’d be able to use them better than I. She wrinkled her nose at that—deriding either the apparent sign of affection or smell of my feet—but I noticed she wasted no time in donning them. In return, she gave me her bracelet—a relic of Ramna, from our first adventure together. She’d always refused to tell me what it did. We said our heartfelt goodbyes—a combined total of nine words—and without further hesitation, she activated the portal and I stepped forward, toward my fate.

Moving on

An instant. That’s all it takes to change a life forever. A boy sees his parents slaughtered and grows up in the time it takes their bodies to hit the floor. A young man sees his everything go up in flames and sheds his life without a second thought. A grifter takes his first life in cold blood. And that, well, that’s a path you can’t walk back. A man, older than his years, steps onto an airship and leaves his world forever.

Once again I am an orphan, more now than ever before. For now even Terra itself is beyond my reach. My pleas, while recognized by the council, were not enough to convince them to abandon their plan. We won our war, but our victory cannot exonerate the crimes we have committed. And yet, despite my earlier panic at the thought of the sealing, I find myself oddly at peace with the proceedings. After all, the world I am abandoning bares little resemblance to the one I remember, one which steadily removed everything that could tie me to it. If I believed in fate, I might say that it was preparing me for this very moment, preparing me to leave it behind. No, I do not mourn my latest loss—for once I am not an exile. This time my home is the one being exiled. I am what is left standing.

After the sealing I remained at Tu’narath for a time. As the sentry of the dead gods, they have amassed a considerable library, with a special focus on religions and religious lore. “Amassed” being the key word, as it was immediately clear that nobody ever bothered to organize the collection. I doubt most of the tomes had ever even been looked at before. These people are more hoarders than scholars. As such, I didn’t actually learn much during my stay, reading only enough to sort and catalog the material. It was not particularly interesting work, so when a distraction eventually arose, I was quick to take it.

A jumper, they called him. An old friend of mine once claimed such a name, which is why it caught my attention at all. If his abilities were anything like hers, however, he must have been doing it far longer, for his jumps spanned worlds. He had come, it turns out, seeking me. The sealing of our plane had attracted his attention. Suddenly, a world that had never really struck his interest was inaccessible to him. So naturally he wanted to know everything he could about it. I strung him along for a bit, honestly preferring not to think about it. But my curiosity was starting to grow. The number of other worlds out there is staggering. Surely somewhere out there would be answers to my questions. And even if I turned up nothing, would it not better to turn up nothing out there, where I could maybe do something useful in the process, rather than here among stuffy old books?

If I’m being honest, I was getting restless. I’ve spent more of my life than I’d like confined in one way or another. As terrible as the road is, as adventures can be, at least they’ve always made me aware how alive I am. Sitting here in the library, day in and day out, was becoming nothing but a prison of my own making. So I made a deal with the jumper—show me the universe, and I will tell you about mine. Which is, loosely, how I ended up here. Stranded on an alien world, the lone human, from a sealed plane that has already become more myth than fact. My life, yet again, changed in an instant. And I’m rather looking forward to whatever happens next.

Thorman

Again, we find ourselves at the end of our hope. A normal man, reaches a point in his life where he must choose to live or die, choose to fight or fail, choose to to change the world..or to live in it. I have reached this precipices one too many times and stared ahead into the unknown. As I stand in this room and listen to friends, companions and allies bicker, strategize and plot..I remember we all have seen and done more in our lifetimes than should be asked of anyone. Two great evils have surfaced and must be destroyed. We have access to a power we once tried to stop but that might be used to our advantage..or our doom. We have too many questions and not enough answers. The enemy is infinite in number, and even sits among our own ranks. We know of possible places and people we could use, could seek out, but none are certain. This is the knowledge that is shared, scoffed at and thrown around by all of us..but no one really knows what we should do..no one really knows if anything will work..if their decision is the right one..including me.

In the end..I know that even the god is not what will end the world..at least not how we’ve seen it. I know the monster that lurks in the dark..the unknown..the unseen is what will end it all. Doran…is always one step ahead. We tried to locate pieces of the new amulate..thinking..hoping it would lead us to a location to cast the storm..both leads..the minotaur and the vampire..had already been payed a visit. We returned to the inn where we started..with nothing new..no advancement..no progress. We decide to let everyone rest..hoping to follow the minotaur to our next mistep. I took a walk out to the monument..Hedar follows. After piecing together two pieces of the amulet..his condition has worsened. I still see him..but Doran is far more plain to see. He tells me he no longer can see the real me..that the monster is all that’s left to him. I wonder if that’s how he has started to see himself. He tells me we can’t let him win..and what must be done should we activate the storm. After seeing Heuburt..what’s left of him..I can’t blame him for not wanting to leave his fate to chance. It’s the same reason I’ve grown to respect Balidor’s decision. Only in my millennium have I come to accept that at any moment I may no longer exist. I have already lived far longer than anyone should be deemed worthy to…and I have to remember that not everyone is afforded that comfort in death. Hedar leaves and I make for the waters below.

In my years of training..I often sought solitude even from the quiet of the monastery. I missed the long walks of my past..of seeing the stars above and knowing only them. As I float in the water and see every single glimmering light..I wonder if Doran ever looked up at this same sky. I know he has..but I have come to realize he was one who wanted to know every point of light..every single nuance in space and time. He is not one to let something unexpected..or unknown occur. Every move we make is one he has layed out for us. We continue to run down his path..blindly following the bread crumbs he’s left behind. We will do so in the morning..and we will find not but wisps of his trail and laughter. We cannot keep playing his game. There is no winning it…even if we chose not to play. Just like every pin hole in this vast canopy..there are options..efforts and actions we haven’t tried. We must exhaust every opportunity and use every angle…he is not a god…and I should know…no matter how old you may be…you cannot know…nor plan for every outcome.

I will tell them in the morning. Something burns inside me…and I know I will see it heard. We will fail if we try what is known to us…if we try what he has touched..what he knows. We have all come too far simply to fail together. I think we’ve all known..but just don’t want to accept..that at the end of all this..few will remain to rejoice. We all have powers and destiny’s that we don’t fully understand…nor does he. As I climb back up and face the inn where everyone rests…I know that come first light…things will change forever.

My name was Thorman Redfield, but today..I embrace the monster I’ve become.

Hedar
Upon our journey to Arkhen we spotted a dwarf sitting in the open tundra of Torin. Upon landing near him I immediately sensed Borsho’s necromancy. He assumed I had brought Thorman and Jhulaer as reinforcements to force the spell’s knowledge from him. While not entirely true, I did what I could to explain our situation to him without altering the course of history on his part. We questioned him on where he had come across knowledge of something so powerful. He said it was in an old spellbook in an abandoned house in the city of Spellscale. Though I cannot see facial expressions, I assumed Jhulaer and Thorman shared the same reaction as I. Once again everything points at him. Doran. All of this planned out from the beginning.
Borsho eventually handed me the papers for Cepasec (sp?), a thick document of a single spell in written form. Borsho didn’t need the papers anymore, for he had memorized the whole thing. We bid the dwarven necromancer farewell and headed into Arkhen for supplies and rest. Once we had found lodging and taken care of trivial tasks, Jhulaer mentioned a vision she had with Roz. She informed us that one last use of her time travel ability was available, but only for her and one of us. Thorman, or what I now see as the parasite, became very adamant that he should be left behind. He desired to retrain himself now that he had lost a part of his power in those two blades. If it were not for Doran’s strong corruption over me I would have thought to train with him. We had to leave him, but I suggested we use magic as a means to suspend him from the confines of time so that we may awaken him again when we return to the present. Where I belong. We bought scrolls of temporal stasis and freedom to freeze and unlock him, but he was responsible for finding a caster to freeze him. As for the location, we decided it must be near the sanctuary Balidor had created. Jhulaer suggested engraving a message that could only be seen from afar, a message very few could read. God killer. After all was said and done, Jhulaer used her last bit of power to transport her and I back to the present. She was able to take us to the sanctuary. We observed hundreds of dragons flying above us. Trevan and Terra greeted us, saying Finean had spoken of an extraordinary event to occur at this place on this day. Jhulaer took her dragon form and burrowed her way to where Thorman, the parasite, was sealed away. We greeted him and made our way to the inn of Da’Voreth to find Alton. There we began to discuss tactics as to what must be done to prevent the destruction that will come.
It was then that I began to question our intentions regarding this spell. In practice, it will have the capability to destroy Erythnul, but in turn we will likely destroy much more in that attempt. And if Erythnul possesses the ability to use Cepasec, this will, by common laws of magic, neutralize his use of the spell. Even if we prevent our own destruction in such a manner, we would need to cast it again, an entire day’s time, to finish the god off. In addition to all of this, everything that we have recently discovered, nearly everything we have ever seen or witnessed, has also been seen by the parasite lurking inside Thorman, now even stronger from dwelling within him for a longer duration. This parasite, its origins stem from Doran. For all I know, Doran may be seeing everything I see now, considering my current state. And though Cepasec is said to be a ‘god killer’ all of us have seen Doran’s power transcend the power of gods. Even Erythnul said Doran was the reason for his existence. I highly doubt Cepasec will destroy Doran, and if it does, it will have been his plan, benefiting him in the end. Balidor, or Pelor shall we say, witnessed Zassimick fall at the hands of Doran as well as himself. And then there is the amulet of Erythnul. Another path we could take, though putting the pieces together would likely make more of Doran’s plans fall into place. These paths of power… they all seem like answers to us because we have found nothing better to aid us to our desired end. We will cast Cepasec, we will repair the amulet of Erythnul, we will destroy the Orchard of Mines, we will kill Erythnul, we will confront Doran… but none of it will matter. We cannot control fate. It controls us, for it is me. I control fate. Doran controls fate. Like Doran, I too am beyond the gods. I will end this world. I will start this world. And so the raven bathed in blood shall signal the world’s freedom.

Jhulaer De-Ath

I find myself lying awake, tossing and turning in my bed. When sleep does finally come, it’s not as I expect. Instead I find myself back glassy dark shore where I once held Raz in his final moments. As I watch the black sea crash against the rocks, I hear a familiar voice. Is this really a dream? Raz stands behind me, the same worn down, exhausted Raz I held in my arms. As we spoke for the last time, he said that he had seen this happen, and knew I’d need the guidance. He confirmed my fears and told me that I had lost the power to control time for good, and that likely only a tiny remnant of that power remained, and even then, it would only be enough to get myself and one other back to our time. He also spoke of the storm and revealed that he had played a part in it’s creation. The storm is the only way to stop Eurythnal, and we desperately need to find a copy of it so that we can stop him once and for all. That would require Borsho, and a pure place that touches all other places. Raz confirmed that the Oasis was one such place, and that Thormin would know one other if he thought about it. Saying goodbye to Raz for the last time, I found myself once again in my bed.

Seeking Thorman and finding him absent, I sought out Hedar. Leaving the inn, we headed for the arena, in hopes of making some coin either by betting or competing. Upon hearing that the first bout would start in minutes, I quickly went to place a wager, but after hearing the first name I knew I didn’t need to hear any more, and it explained where Thorman had gone. Placing 50 grand on the counter for the chance at the 10-1 odds against " The Abandoned" I quickly hurried to my seat. However, it became quickly apparent that a fair fight, this was not. As Thorman entered the arena, and at the command of the King, some Emman from long ago, guards and warriors surrounded my friend, as well as two dragons springing from the portals created by Thorman’s would-be opponent. Sending Thorman a message I offered assistance, but he declined, demanding we do not get involved. I understood. This was Thorman’s fight. Thorman’s bloodlust. Thorman’s search for meaning. As Thorman raged on, attempting to fight off everyone, he showed his power well, pummeling his opponents and pinning one dragon by himself, yet it was clear that the odds were not in his favor. Sensing his own defeat, Thorman resigned to his loss. But since when is he one to go away quietly? In a flash Hedar appeared beside him, and in a second flash, they were gone.

After slipping out of the arena, and refusing to take any less than I had bet in the return of my funds, we met up outside the city. Explaining briefly the importance of gaining the power of the storm spell, we teleported near Borsho’s city, and upon flying the last leg of the journey in dragon form, I carried my companions one step closer to our goal.

Thorman

It’s all a blur…a bloody, tearful, aching blur. I see nothing but the face of my old friend and wonder what it must be like, to be a part of something so much greater than yourself..to belong to a legion. How does it feel to have yourself slip away..to not be able to fight your way to the forefront of your own consciousness as you beat down your allies…to know that you are being controlled by a force you cannot match and at any point it might choose to put you away forever…….perhaps I have a small notion. My head aches from the very thought of all this…not a pounding pain…but an unfamiliar pressure.

I awake, slowly. Something very large has a vice-like grip on my head..enough so that I wager should whatever this was want me dead..I would be so already. Jhulaer speaks..good. Wherever we are at least she seems to have survived and is quickly putting her silver tongue to work on this…beast. This beast who, chained to a tree as I currently am, stands so tall I cannot see it’s head. It reeks of pestilence and decay..of slaughter and famine. What is…it speaks. A low rumble of a voice…the sound of rock collapsing in a tunnel…powerful but distant. Through my daze I am able to discern it’s..his identity. This is Totem, the minotaur the younger one spoke of…Doran’s one-time companion. He speaks ill of me..claiming he fought me recently..that he aims to finish what he started. Jhulaer begins to explain our predicament that I barely understand myself..time..I don’t even know if it means anything to me anymore…and I begin to heal. I focus and let my body regenerate..closing the wounds that had been reopened…each a reminder of what awaits us..and that we have no time. I do what I can..but I do little more than ease my own pain for a brief moment. Totem is hesitant to believe where..and when we are from. Minotaur may be beasts but not all are savages, and clearly Totem is no fool. Only then would he completely believe our story. I know we should leave…we shouldn’t even be speaking to him…but I do. Worse, i warn him. I tell him exactly what Doran is and what he will do. I don’t care if it jeopardizes everything we worked for up until now…in that moment..I felt no other option.

After questions, accusations, and information is exchanged between us and this towering behemoth..little of which I really hear or take in..too lost..too tired, Jhulaer tries to find Hedar. She also mentions Melron, a name Totem recognizes. As I stroll through this empty battlefield we’ve found ourselves in, I look for fallen weaponry. I feel too light..too weak..naked without the blades that were just as much a part of me as the scars I bare. Out of desperation, I ask if Melron still resides in the north, but in this time it seems, my old friend is still in the underdark making a name for himself. Jhulaer succeeds in locating Hedar and gives me the choice..of seeking Melron or our companion. I feel…I know how useless I am at the moment..and every fiber of me screams to arm myself..but this cannot wait. The longer we are separated the worse things could get..and we need to ensure the others are safe. After watching this mountainous minotaur strode away across this barren dead-zone, Jhulaer takes us to Hedar.

I almost laugh as we appear yet again in the same arena. Not out of coincidence mind you, nor irony, but terror..sheer terror. The thought that we have gone back in time again and I have no idea if we are at the start or the end..who I am..where I am..what is real. I laugh at the sheer lunacy that has become my life. Hedar appears to have some company as I finally take notice of him. An all too familiar gnome..and an orc with superb manners..yes I recognize him too. The brigade begins to lead us out of here..but I can’t take my eyes off the arena..of the men staving off death from a huge, blue dragon. Something compels me..tells me..maybe I’ll find my new blades here…forged in combat rather than a furnace. I will rip the very weapons from my opponents grasp and make them my own..I will find them again. I’m falling behind..so I shake myself out of my own head and continue to follow. We are lead to a farm house outside the city..where we meet another member of the brigade..another ghost from my past..Harken. He and Hedar speak of Borsho..the dwarf in the cave..the king who didn’t know he was just a pawn..they speak of powerful spells..the storm..when it will be made..hidden secrets..stolen information..a place of innocence untouched by the corruption..a focus..a caster. All I hear is the clash of steel still ringing in my ears…then..as if from a distance, I hear Harken claim that Borsho found this spell..that he knows of it’s origin. That’s it. A place of such power..ancient and seldom seen. Doran will be there. I feel it in my bones. I tell the others what I know we must do..confront Borsho..and pull the information from him at any cost. I’ve no patience for caution or careful planning.

I leave the others behind and make for the arena..but I’m too late. Nothing will be done today..and I meet Hedar and Jhulaer at an inn. We..they discuss a plan of action. Borsho..time..rest..words I gleam as I agree to sleep..but there will be no rest for me. Come day break I will make for the arena. I will return to wear it all started to find my strength. I will give the crowd a show the likes of which they’ve never seen. I will throw caution to the wind and out of the wounds of innocent men will flow my glory. I will find Hope and Faith again even if I must stain every last grain of sand red. Then I will know…if I am even worthy of returning.

I am a fraud. I live my life as the man who makes the hard choices. The one who does what is necessary, so others don’t have to. Willing to be seen as the bad guy by the very people I help. But here I am faced by a group of people, doing exactly what I do, making the impossible decision. Doing something terrible but necessary for the greater good. And I am fighting them with every breath I take.

These people want to quarantine Terra. Lock an entire world away from the others. Permanently. They say we’re too powerful for them. We’ve invaded them, threatened them, and they’re too weak to stop us. And now we’ve raised a god, a complete, living god, one who is not content to merely watch and meddle from afar. We have no power to stop him, they have no power to stop us. So what choice do they have but to seal us away? If I were them, I would have made the same choice. Then why do I oppose this now?

I’ve been thinking about this since the trial, trying to understand the words that came to me there. I’ve always believed that cowardice is just a term fools use to describe the actions a rational man, and yet I employed it then, repeatedly. I pleaded with them to forget our crimes and join us in an almost undoubtedly futile fight against a threat bigger than any of us. Am I now a fool?

I tell myself that my life ended over 200 years ago, that I fight out of respect for the nobility of my companions… well, just companion now. That I feel nothing more than a sense of obligation to protect them from the dangers of their better nature. It’s a lie I’m all too willing to believe. But I belied myself today—for all my stony facade, the truth is, I do care. Perhaps it’s for our broken world with its broken people. Perhaps, deep down, I still believe we can be better than we are, despite all evidence to the contrary. Is it hope I fight for? Or is it simply hatred?

I’ve all but convinced myself that I fight against oppression wherever it may appear, and that may even be truth, but only by proxy. I’m no hero, just a contrarian. Gods, kings, councils, it’s all the same, merely authorities I seek to depose. These men aren’t seeking to punish us, to judge us, only to protect themselves. It’s a cause I should celebrate, not condemn. But they have the power, so I stand defiant. Is that what I truly amount to, when you strip away the excuses, a rebel for any cause?

In the end, none of it really matters. I don’t know what decision they may have reached, but I have a guess, and I doubt my words held much weight. I spoke as would a drowning man, flailing about in a desperate bid to save my own life, even at the likely expense of others. Would any reasonable man extend a hand to such as that? Would I? Regardless of my motivations, I fought once again to defend a world full of people I so often disdain, and I am likely to be sealed away with them for the rest of my time. If that is to be my fate, then perhaps the time has come to truly believe in something. I just have to decide what it’s going to be.

I awaken on a mossy field, exhausted. My head is pounding and my body aching. Good, I clearly suffered no damage from the fall, or whatever this was. A figure is standing over me. Locklear, offering his hand. Good, at least we weren’t all separated. No sign of any others, though, Jhulaer or Pav. Hopefully they’re here somewhere, looking for us as we look for them.

Locklear tells me he’s uncertain where we are, other than somewhere far away from our own world. This place is made up of land masses, but rather than air separating them, it is a substance upon which solid material can float. I spent some time a lifetime ago studying other worlds, back when travel between them was still readily possible and those able to do so were taking refuge in them. This seems like what I’ve heard of the plane of magic itself, the one the mages called Astral.

Looking at the land masses, something about them strikes me as familiar. On a hunch I start digging at the ground below me, quickly hitting an unexpected barrier—leather. Locklear cuts away a piece and below it we find flesh. This isn’t land, it’s a man.

Barely had we resumed discussing our plan of action when we’re set upon by a band of… well here they’re just as well “men” although on our world we’d scarcely recognize them as such. A scouting troop, by the look of it, and they’re none too pleased to see us. They confer in a language I don’t understand, and then what I believe is their leader speaks to us directly.

We tell him where we’re from and a very loose explanation of how we came to be here. He and his men don’t like our presence here—they were happy to have the link between our world and theirs closed, after the exodus of old. We manage to convince him, I think, that we’re harmless and mostly just want to go home. He calls our world dead, and says it will not be mourned. Maybe he’s right, but even so, I’m inclined to let someone desecrate its corpse.

The troop escorts us to their city, Tu’narath, clearly holding us in guard, but not aggressively. As we go, Muu’vaar, as their leader is called, explains to us the bodies that we travel on. They are dead gods. As I gaze down upon them, I spot a familiar face, and feel, if only for a moment, a bit of sadness. I don’t know what lies beyond the reaches of life, but something about this seems lonely. I have no love for gods, but for a being of such power and great works to be given such an empty end seems, disproportionate. Neither praised, nor condemned, simply left to be forgotten. If such a fate is what awaits these titans, what could there possibly be for the rest of us.

The Arena.
I’d heard Thormin mention it in passing, the place where all of this started. The arena in a battle to the death, for his freedom. There were others there. Some of the names familiar, but others I don’t recall. But that was lifetimes ago, when I was a mere child, and when the surface wasn’t so hopeless. There was magic then, but when it left, hope left with it. Say what the surface dwellers may about the harsh realities and brutality of the underdark, it has no illusion’s about the key role magic plays in the health of the universe.
Today is the best chance to reverse some of what’s been done. Today is the day to fight and die if needed. Dying seems more likey. After assessing the situation, we began to make our move. I scryed for Pov, and after prompting, Locklear, he gave his appraisal of the situation, and explained that he had separated Pav from the rest of the group at Hedar’s reccomendation. Smart call. As we discuss what needs to be done, we’re struck with uncertainty, and no clear direction to head in. In typical Locklear fashion, I see him through my scry dismissing our indecision with undeserved superiority. He’s done everything in he world possible to face me to hate him, and I do, but despite what he’s done and what we’ve managed to undo, I can’t help but accept the fact that he deserves to know what today truly means as muc as anyone. “Today is the day the world ends. Maybe you don’t understand that, but today will determine the fate of millions. And your life is one of them.” I see a moment of atypical seriousness fall across the bowman’s face. After telling Pav to remain hidden, he left the dilapidated building with a sense of determination. As we moved nearer the center of the arena where the elves stood pontificating. I watched as Locklear swept through the city and scaled the wall of the colluseum. Meanwhile our dear blind Hedar has begun sprinting across the expanse, Thorman in tow.
Reaching a vantage point and nocking an arrow Locklear asks for a target. Seeing Tetronys charging towards Thorman, I call out his name, and without a moment’s hesitation, a massive arrow erupts from the center of his back. In succession he asks each target next. Sensing the opportunity, I name King Danden, but there’s no time to confirm the result as the massive “chosen” Europa, following where Tetronys had lead, also charging at the two who seem to believe that they’ll be able to survive the twins. However, each projectile our uneasy compatriot seems to be flinging at him is being easily batted away by the towering man as though it were nothing. I’m so engrossed in the battle that I almost miss the scene unfolding in the air where the two elves have begun to merge, and in a flash of violent red light only one elf remains, though looking strangely different, and without the mechanical additions. the remaining elf, Hedar and Thormin seem locked in an embrace, and spending more time talking than fighting. Before I have a chance to react, the three of them are gone, and Europa is heading straight for Locklear. A few quick teleportations and I’ve gathered up him and Alton into what is definitely the strangest turn of events yet. As we and the ever hidden Kestral arrive at he abandoned house where Pav resides, kestral and I share a vision of the new elf torturing both Hedar and Thorman. Something about the vision clues me in to his location. They’re on Raz’s plane. I don’t waste any time before saying that we need to help. I take the entire group and use my orb of planar travel for the first time. However, in transit, the elf appears. In the blink of an eye, in the space between spaces, I watch helplessly as each of my companions is flung out of the slipstream and to where I don’t know.

Finally I’m the last remaining, and I arrive. In a singsong voice the elf says hello to me and calls me Raz. I take the time to make myself clear, and inform him that I’m not Raz in the most calm collected way I can manage, and release a blast of electric energy. Without being fazed, he throws me to the ground leaving behind a blue aura where I stood. within a matter of moments I watch as Hedar is thrown into the blue aura, and disappears before being so merciful as he states that he’s going to let us live, just to see us suffer. Suddenly we’re alone. Thormin is on his hands and knees bleeding and sobbing with pain. I’m not leaving Hedar to wander through whatever point in time the elf sent him to, and without a word I grab Thorman and jump into the aura.

We arrive immediately at the main event. Crowds of people cheering, celebrating, praising the God of Slaughter. It’s not surprising—people are easily led by anyone with the right words, particularly in trying times like these—but the lack of surprise does nothing to quell the disgust it stirs in my gut. A giant symbol of Erythnul himself lies on a platform as the focal point of the gathering, constructed, fittingly enough of dead bodies. Whenever you start to think well of the average person, it’s things like this that should be remembered—it’s the average person who so easily and enthusiastically embraces such horrific things. Perhaps this world deserves the doom it’s about to receive.

I look down at my defiled cloak and gloves, then in frustration cast them to the ground. That’s the second cloak of mine he’s ruined now. Saying nothing about it, I turn to the others and ask what our first move should be. Our endemic lack of planning once again creeps up as we waste valuable time deciding what we should do. Half the group resolves to take out the king and we start rushing off in that direction. While that’s certainly a notion I’m happy to embrace, I fail to see how that will in any way help stop the main problem at hand. We stop again to discuss other possible courses, and Jhulaer shows a worrying lack of discretion by initiating a magical conversation with the fourth Chosen, Pav, a friend of Hedar’s who he took care to keep away from the rest. Sure, the spell is mostly unnoticeable to the naked eye, but in this, of all places, I fear the use of magic itself might give us away. She talks briefly with Pav, then reaches out to his guardian of sorts, a man named Locklear.

The mage is quiet for a while, presumably holding conversation with him, then comes back to us with a question. She and Locklear want to know what happened last time, hoping that there will be some sort of clue to what to do this time. But it’s a waste of time. Nothing happened last time, except some good people died for no good reason. Prophecies are a crock—unless the goal is to waste time, resources, and people in seeking them.

Still, there are perhaps some things from the much more recent past that could be relevant. I think back to Balidor and the cleric of Pelor in vampire’s lair, speaking of the revival of Pelor. Blood of a follower, spilled in the name of the god. In mentioning this, they inform me that one of the new Chosen is, incredulously, a follower of Erythnul. Perhaps he’s the key. I decide we should go back and pursue that somehow. The two elves are grandstanding near the symbol, clearly gearing up to start whatever this is. Thorman informs us he saw one of them holding a vial of something, a dark red liquid. Blood. It seems the Chosen won’t be needed for this after all. Then the elves start making a speech and there’s no more time for consideration.

We strike immediately. Jhulaer and Hedar attempt to disrupt the sign of Erythnul—with any luck it’s more than just symbolic—but the elves hardly seem to care, even as the body parts are thrown directly at them. I wait and watch, unable to do anything useful until I know what’s going to happen. Then one of them pulls out a vial and invokes “the blood of the enemy”. Of course. Different god, different ritual. He wanted it to be over, but it still comes back to him in the end. It’s Balablood.

It’s a long shot, but it’s our only hope. The blood in that vial is likely the last blood of Balidor they can get. If we can stop them from spilling it for Erythnul, perhaps their ritual will be stalled. I throw a knife at his hand, hoping he’ll drop it, but only manage to hit him in the leg. And there’s no time for a second. He crushes the vial in his hand, and it begins.

It’s hard to tell what’s going on—near as I can tell the pair of them are being encased in some sort of orb—like an egg, or maybe a cocoon? I throw another knife in a vain attempt to break it, but to no avail. Thorman likewise attacks it and manages to break it momentarily, but that, too, does nothing to halt what is happening. And what is happening? I’m at a complete loss—I don’t know how these things work so I can’t even begin to come up with any ideas. I don’t see any other way, as loathe as I am to acknowledge the connection we now have, wanting nothing to do with it, in fact, it has recently become clear that simply ignoring it won’t be an option forever. And what was it I said earlier, “as long as our desires are in sync”? So I swallow my pride and straight up ask, “What now?” The answer, I almost didn’t expect to receive, comes shortly. “Let’s just see where this goes.” Strange attitude from one who wants the other gods eliminated. Surely the best chance for that to happen is before he rises? But nevertheless, waiting is the only option now and it’s not going to last long. Mere moments later, it’s over and where there were once two, there is now only one. A god has risen. And it still looks like Hubert‽

Meanwhile, our efforts have attracted attention, as several of the king’s agents, including a massive man, nearly 10 feet tall, start coming our way to intervene. I do my best to blend into the crowd, hoping to take at least one of them by surprise, but before they can act, one of them is impaled with a massive bolt. A sniper—it must be this Locklear Jhulaer was talking to. We scarcely have time to process his first shot when he looses a second, this time at the king’s box. He hits his mark and the king goes flying out of view.

The convention has turned to chaos, but suddenly I know what needs to be done. Thorman and Hedar are confronting Erythnul, if that’s indeed what this is. The sniper is handling crowd control. No one knows I’m here. If the king is to be assassinated, and this is the optimal time for it to be done, someone needs to confirm the kill. There are no half-measures in regicide. Making my way to the box is easy. Panicked crowds are perfect for concealment, perhaps even better than the darkness. Unfortunately, the crowds are avoiding the box itself, and at least a few guards are yet not. But I’m not entirely dependent on my environment for my stealth. A smoke bomb and a shadow are all I require to slip past these guards, although not before one manages to get a weak jab to my side.

Inside the box, I’m glad I’ve come. The king is wounded, badly I’d imagine. I’m no healer, but I’m fairly certain it’s tough to stay alive when you’re missing a chunk of your side. Still a healer is present—the king looks bad, possibly dead already, but I don’t doubt that he has the best on staff and I can’t leave anything to chance. The healer doesn’t see me, and I don’t intend to let him. I move quickly, fluidly, with a single long motion—he’ll see something, but never be able to say exactly what—running across the box and out the window, slitting the King’s throat as I go. And before he even has time to react, I’m gone, over the side, then over the wall, running vertically down, a magical trick I’ve used many times before but never fully gotten used to. Suddenly, a voice in my head—Jhulaer. She wants to know where I am. I tell her I’ve escaped the commotion for the time being. She tells me they’re preparing to escape the city altogether and where to meet her. A man I don’t recognize beckons me—it must be Locklear. He leads me to a non-descript house, and then further to a non-descript closet, where Jhulaer, Alton, and someone else I don’t recognize are all waiting. Wasting no time, Jhulaer transports us all back to the Oasis. I’m just about to ask where Thorman and Hedar are, when my question is pre-emptively answered by a vision in the sky. Somehow, despite the impossibility of it all, I don’t doubt its authenticity.

Thorman and Hedar are facing… Hubert. And for a time it truly does seem to be him, talking, moving just like him. Speaking to Thorman as an old friend. But then, something new, something different, even, from the two pretenders, creeps in. Something cruel and fierce and horrible. I can do nothing but stand and watch as the only man I call friend is tortured and taunted by a being whose very existence is an affront to us. And as I feel a hatred for this thing, a cold and long-abandoned, yet disturbingly comfortable and familiar sensation, coming over me, Jhulaer suddenly snaps into focus. “I’m taking us there.” And then we’re teleporting again, and I feel a familiar sensation of dread, one I haven’t felt for over 200 years, in that impossible moment between departure and destination, a certainty that things have gone wrong. But this time it’s more than that because suddenly he’s there and he speaks to me, somehow, in that timeless moment, his words chilling me to the bone. “All those times… When you didn’t go where you intended to…”

The sound of applause surrounds me. Voices chant the name of Erythnul, the god of slaughter. I haven’t the slightest clue where I currently am, but I soon hear my companions around me, speaking amidst the cheers and shouts. We have arrived in Syskillia for the day of Erythnul’s awakening. My eyes suddenly blink open. The sight does not move with my motions… this again. I can only guess I am seeing from some random audience member. I spot the two elves down at the arena’s center, standing before a symbol of Erythnul on the sand, shaped from limbs. Suffering begins to speak and give praise to their god. We quickly make our way to the king’s box, using Alton’s knowledge of his homeland, his kingdom, to lead us there.
At a certain point we stopped and discussed the various implications of what we decide to do. While we need to be quick, we also need to be certain of the correct decision, if there is one. Kestral mentioned that the vampire mentioned the blood of a true follower being spilled to resurrect a god. Therefore Edgar became a target for us, but then we ran across the concern of possibly performing what the elves wanted. Knowing that Pov was nowhere to be seen at the arena I told Jhulaer to scry for Locklear, believing that if the man was doing the job I’d asked, Pov would be with him. She could not reach him, so she tried for Pov. After a couple more tries she was able to connect with Locklear and found that Pov was safe, away from the ritual. My eyes blinked again and I began to see from Thorman’s perspective. Every time this happens I am stunned by the sudden sight I am given, like a light in one’s eyes after staying in the dark.
I finally voiced my stance in the conversation, stating my full intention to face the elves and prevent this ritual, despite the power I know they wield to stop me. The others agreed, also seeing Pain and Suffering as the greater threats. We fought our way through the crowd back outside. From Thorman’s eyes I saw the elves. Two halves of a companion Thorman and Kestral once knew. The audience became quiet. The elves moved forward to start their speech and we acted. I jumped into the arena and was able to roll my way to balance. Thorman jumped in as well while limps and bodies flew through the air from Jhulaer’s telekinesis. I cast fly on myself and ran as fast as I could to meet the elves, now each engulfed in a red aura far above the ground. Thorman followed closely behind me with his blades drawn, watching me run ahead of him. Before I could move fast enough the two auras merged, crystallized, and then shattered to reveal a single elf with curly blonde hair. I told Thorman to take my hand and I brought the two of us up to the elf. I touched his face with my corrupted hand, hoping it would have some instant effect. Nothing. Thorman spoke the name, “Hubert” and the elf responded, “Thorman, I’m scared.” This elf’s eyes… they were looking into Thorman’s, but at the same time the elf seemed to know I was there too. This fragile elf… the god of slaughter? I had no idea how to react. I had expected a great force of evil, or an endless void of Doran’s copies. Instead, this elf. I could hear some commotion stirring from the crowds and asked the elf if he could take us somewhere else. If we are to get answers, it is not here.
Thorman and I were transported to what I can only describe as, the clouds. My sight has returned and I witness the rest of my companions, along with Locklear and Pov, teleporting across the world, according to the elf. Since the teleport was moving slowly, I assume we are held in a place somewhat separated from time, or at least moving much faster than our time. We asked this god, this elf named Hubert, his intentions now that he has awakened. He said he had never intended to become a god, that he had originally been an elven bard. But he voiced his intention to spread the word of his name to everyone across the world. After that had been said, I finally became certain that this supposed god had no intention of helping us. Thorman walks over and embraces what he thought to be his old friend and states he is Erythnul’s abandoned to command. Erythnul then turns his gaze to me and asks me what I am to do. I tell him that as a fate I must protect existence and oversee the gods. If the god of slaughter intends to stand against existence, I shall do what is necessary to stop him. Erythnul commands Thorman to take care of me. Before I even draw my weapon against Thorman, I tell him to see the god for what he truly is. Whoever this Hubert was no longer exists in the shell now consumed and controlled by the god of slaughter. Thorman takes a moment and then turns to the god, asking where he stands in relation to Doran. Erythnul expresses Doran as the reason for his awakening. Without Doran he would be nothing. Doran, held in high regard by this god he has brought back. Thorman then walked over to my side and told the god that the Hubert he knew died long ago. The god chuckled and held Thorman with a spell, or possibly the raw power of a god. I moved to attack the god and was able to land a hit. But whatever injury it caused was instantly regenerated and I felt my head crushed to the invisible solid surface below me. While Thorman was held Erythnul consistently began bringing him to the brink of death and recovering him to his full capacity. The most extreme torture I’d witnessed. Before I knew how to react, Thorman was swept away in a flash and Jhulaer appeared across from me. Erythnul addressed Jhulaer as Roz and held his hand to the mage, extracting a blue aura from her… Roz’s power. In a blink he appears next to me, “Have fun!” and I am thrown into the blue aura without a chance to stop this god.

The fates protect existence and oversee the gods.
The past.
I am a fate. The other two fates are dead. They are me.
Who am I?
I will kill this god. The god of slaughter.
I am a fate.
Thorman… Jhulaer… Balidor… Kestral.
The gods.
Fate. The present.
Hope has failed.
The fates protect existence. Erythnul has risen. The gods are dead.
Doran… and Alice. I am a fate.
What are we left with? I am Doran.
Zassimick, the abhorrents. The future.
Gods. Fates. Doran.
The fates protect.
The fates prevail.
The fates have failed.
I am fate.
What are we left with?

Thorman

They say your life flashes before your eyes in the moments before death They are right…and I have gazed at death’s door far too frequently for one man..if I can even be called that anymore. So as a god I once called friend stands before me and with a wave of his hand rends the life from my body again and again…the past few moments do indeed return.
The coliseum, where it all began. The same crowd..the same joyful cheers of ignorance ring through the bloodstained sands. The only difference is the spectacle before them. Two halves of a whole being..the elves..an illusion of true power raise their hands to crowd and announce their prophecy for all to hear. Too much evil..all in one place. All our foes gathered here to watch this atrocity. We argue over what to do..who to stop. But I know, a world at war is still a world that can be saved. Should this god arise, there will not be a world to save. I know this place well from memory..though it’s been centuries, and we make for the underground passages where the combatants are stored. We hope that if we can disrupt the arena floor..shift the symbol or destroy it..it will halt their endeavors if not at least stall them. We ponder and strategize but there is no time. Finally we make it to the battleground, familiar territory for all of us. We begin the disruption of the symbol of bodies, Juhlaer hurling corpses at the elves themselves. Nothing phases them..nothing stops them. They rise into the air and I see the red vial in the quiet one’s hand. Before I can say a..it shatters.
Huebert…the elf that stood by my side..that I saved..that I held as he died..now stares at me with piercing eyes..not his own. I’m shackled in this place..another familiar dead zone where my second life began. I strain against the bonds he’s made..using all my willpower to force Faith upon him. He tires of my efforts..and with none of his own..I lose Hope and Faith..the very weapons this same god once gave me…no..not the same.
A red glow forms around the elves as Hedar and I make for them in a last, wild attempt to stop what we know is about to happen. Hedar is faster than I, so I try anything I can. I snare a limb and hurl it at the duo, a pitiful attempt as it contacts the barrier and fizzles into nothing. Hedar casts a spell of his own and takes a hold of me as we begin to rise to meet them. The two orbs..blood red..merge..crack..and shatter..and I see him. As if not a day had passed. Hedar brings us close enough and I hook a blade on his shoulder, a pain that if he feels he doesn’t show it. I pull myself up to meet his gaze, and I ask of him one thing. To speak. I need to know what these monsters have created. Then..with an all too familiar tremble and stutter..Huebert looks at me..frightened..and says my name. “Thorman?” It is him..no mistaking it. I embrace him as he tells me he’s scared..unsure..I can’t imagine. Hedar asks him to take us away from here..he complies..and like smoke on the wind, we vanish.
As I fight against nothing…with nothing left..Jhulaer appears. I want to tell her to leave..to stay away..I can’t. I’m powerless as whatever Huebert has become rips the very magic from Jhulaer and casts Hedar into it..gone. He throws Jhulaer to the ground..there is no fighting this. As I accept this..my bonds release. I collapse..unable to hold myself up..and I hear this monster state his reason for letting us live. Pain…and suffering. I feel a touch as Jhulaer takes me into the same mist that took Hedar..and as I lose myself, I can’t help but feel sadness. Not for our failure..not for the fate of the world..but that somewhere behind the multitude that is now Huebert that..my friend remains..scared…and alone.

As we enter the tomb of the illusionist, I find myself at a loss for how to proceed. This is a place of pure magic, where even my keenly honed senses are of little use, and in fact may betray me entirely. Alton stays behind and I find myself envying him. I don’t fear what we’re about to face, but I am apprehensive—I may not be able to much here.

We venture forward. Hedar seems to be able to see by way of the magical auras of our surroundings—like some sort of magical bat. For once, he might have an advantage over those of use with working eyes. And no sooner do I think this than does the madness begin. First, I notice Thorman, looking like himself for the first time since our escape. Jhulaer, on the other hand, looks almost like someone else entirely. But, despite all her dark elven features removed, it’s still clearly her. Hedar, by contrast, is no longer fully himself—although I’m mostly convinced that was true before now as well. His… diseased… arm now takes on the full appearance of the king bastard, a limb to match the eyes. And speaking of bastards…

What the significance of all this is, I don’t know. Perhaps there is none and this is all merely a show to unnerve us. Hedar makes sense, he obviously carries something of Doran within him. Perhaps there’s some logic in Thorman as well, at the very least, his appearance is one familiar to him. I don’t know Jhulaer well enough to know of any relevance of a human form, but judging by her reaction, she isn’t aware of any either. As for me, well, I suppose as much as I’m inclined to ignore his intentions, he has some claim to me now—I may not understand the nuances of using magic, but I’m clear enough on the workings to figure that out. I best say something dismissive, hopefully stave off any lingering questions I’m far from ready to deal with. And if this is the kind of game this place wishes to play, best not give it any more to work with than absolutely necessary.

Daily routine: Up an hour before dawn. Quick inventory of all supplies and of the ledgers. Go to the cellar to select and retrieve the day’s food supplies. Quick inspection of the premises to ensure no damage was done during the night by an unruly customer or, gods forbid, thieves. Head down the block to butcher to pick up meats. Bring in milk from doorstep when back. Begin preparing breakfast. Make enough for staff and any known early risers, then leave stove on for remainder of breakfast hours. Compile chore list (mentally at least) for the boy. As soon as the serving girl arrives, put her on kitchen duty and begin attending to any repair or upkeep jobs…

A change of scenery finally forces me to return to deeper thinking. We appear to be standing on a vast, but long-lost battlefield. Bodies in varying states of decay litter the ground. In the distance, a loud pounding noise can be heard, rhythmic, like the pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer. We approach it to find no apparent source—Hedar helpfully informs us it’s magical—but the effect is clearly visible—a vast expanse of rising and rapidly falling dust, dirt, debris… the very air itself. If not insurmountable, it’s certainly not friendly terrain. Jhulaer attempts to ferry us magically across, but that predictably will not work here. No choice then, but to cross on foot (more-or-less).

Crossing immediately proves to be a mistake. Every few seconds I can feel myself being utterly crushed by invisible force. At this rate we’ll be dead before we even make it to the chasm in the middle. Well, most of us will. All of a sudden, Hedar shoots past me at incredible speed, apparently intending to leap the chasm in one fell move, a feat I’d think impossible had I not just seen how he can run. Still trying to, literally, jump it blind isn’t going to end well. Thorman and I, almost as one voice call out him when he approaches the edge, but his timing is off. He jumps too soon and begins plummeting into the unknown below. True to his nature, Thorman leaps after him. I figure I’d better go after the both of them, seeing as I possess actual tools for the job. Besides, whatever awaits below can’t be worse than the pounding above.

As I begin to rappel down, a move somewhat unnecessary for myself, but important for helping the others back up, I see Thorman has at least managed to come up with some tools of his own—using his own blades as pitons. Despite their seeming inadequacy, he seems to be making good progress, until an errant swing misses and he begins falling proper. I disengage my end of the rope from the grapple and begin running after him, only to have my foot sink into open air at the same point Thorman began to fall. I guess we were due for a reminder—none of this is really here.

We land in a cell of some new impossibility, appearing to be somehow positioned high in the air between the world below and the heavens above. If I weren’t so pissed off, it would probably be quite awe-inspiring. Hedar is already here. We debate for a moment what to do. Hedar knows magic that could get us out, but is hesitant to invoke it, given our earlier experiences. Fortunately I happen to have a bit of similar magic at my disposal, so he won’t waste a spell in discovery. I effortlessly bypass the bars through the shadows, but clearly the jail is not the trial we face here.

Another borrowed face. I have no patience for this sort of thing, and particularly here, I’d rather not even dignify these petty attempts at emotional manipulation with a reaction. So I ignore Kitty as much as possible and endeavor to find the way out. Thorman is a bit more engaging and we at least gleam that whatever this is—some puppet of Darien’s no doubt—wants to offer us… something. Quite frankly I don’t care what. Nothing this thing has to offer is good for us. I continue to ignore it and head for the only door in the room. However, one look into it, and I’m suddenly wishing I’d paid a bit more attention. What this thing is offering us may be bad, but whatever lies behind our only exit is probably worse. It looks like a place of peace—the lake, pristine as I’ve only seen it once. But something beckons from within, the sort of beckoning that triggers an almost primal reaction—get the hell away.

I turn back to the room, racking my brain for another option out of this trap, when one is provided for me as a hole is blown in the opposite side, creating a powerful breeze as the air is sucked out of the room. I’m resolved to go with it—the possible oblivion it leads to being preferable to whatever beckons within—but, despite my caution, Thorman heads for the door instead. Apparently he failed to see the call to enter for what it truly is, because he joins it in calling us to enter, going so far as to grab me to keep me from getting sucked out of the room. I try to throw my weight with the vacuum—I can’t possibly escape his grip, but perhaps if I can unbalance him, the winds will do the rest and take us both. But alas even that is futile and, despite my protests, both he and Hedar enter the door. Well, I came here to protect them, so if that’s the fate they choose, than it’ll have to be mine as well.

…

I suddenly find myself in an inn. Not mine. From the look of it, it’s probably one of those franchised Bouncing Sausages. Pretty sloppy work by this Darien then—didn’t even bother to make it believable. As if I would ever work for one of those hack jobs… Suddenly I notice shaed, or rather something borrowing his appearance sitting in front of me. It has little useful to say—merely a mouthpiece for its master. It tells me that the dead lord of this place demands a sacrifice (he doesn’t use those words exactly but the meaning is all too clear). He first asks of me something I cannot give, on either a physical or spiritual level—shaed himself. I make it known, in no uncertain terms, that this is not a valid bargain and he attempts to open further negotiations with the promise of answers to important questions. I doubt he can answer_ my_ most pressing questions and, even if he could, I don’t trust him to do so. And in any case, I’ve already been pressed into too many “bargains”. No more one-sided compromise. If Darien wishes to speak with me—and he ought to, given what I have been, and still am to be, involved in—then he can face me himself. “Very well” the thing says, as we’re transported back to the barren battlefield, “then you can become one of them.” He tells me that many journey here, but are unwilling to pay the price for what they seek and are left to perish. Maybe it’s bluster, maybe it’s true, but either way, I’m not about to be bullied into anything. I’ll bide my time if necessary. Illusions can be broken. Arrangements can be made. On my terms.

Or not. Suddenly the four of us are back at the entrance. At least one of the others must have made a bargain. I wonder what the consequences of that will be. At quick glance, I see that Jhulaer and Thorman are back to the way they were before we entered, but Hedar and I are not. Disturbing. But there’s no time to dwell on that now, as the approaching Alton informs us. The Day has arrived.

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Doran

This place is unlike anywhere else on the surface. It’s magic pulls my mind back to the underdark, but this place doesn’t share the familiar hum of life and passion, and such qualities are replaced with a sense of stark isolation, inhospitable ruin, and a feeling of dread.

Despite it’s magical qualities, this cave is completely alien to me. It is imbued with a magic that feels miles beyond my own, and beyond what I even perceived as possible. Despite my apprehension, time is short, and there is not a moment to waste on doubts and questions. The only choice is to see this through, and to hope for some hint or key to preventing the world’s oncoming annihilation.

As we begin our descent into the cavern, a boundary of sorts, not one in a physical sense, acting perhaps as a signal or barrier from the unworthy, blocks our path, and upon passing through, we find ourselves all with changes. Thorman looks as he once did, shrunken and bandaged, the way he did before he left us. Kesral now wears hooded robes all depicting the sign of the dark god Neyrule, Hedar seems unchanged, save for the black hand which now looks wrinkled, old, and yet, for reasons which are not clear to me yet, disturbingly familiar. I am most shocked by my own transformation. I have lost my wings and claws, and now appear as a human. My eyes don’t adjust to the dark in the same way, and I feel even more threatened by this place than before.

We continue into the cave and before long we cross the threshold into what appears to be an ancient battlefield with an open red sky. The earth at our feet is of a similar red-brown color and it’s dry blood-like dust clings to the abandoned skeletons of some unknown war. This is a wasteland. Moments pass before I realize that the wardrums I hear in my mind while walking through this monument of death, are actually the pounding of something in the distance.

As we climb a hill, we locate the source of the beat. By some strange force, across the endless expanse, we watch as stones and dust lift slowly into the air before each pound of the invisible drumbeat drives them back to the earth. Near the center of the rising and falling mass is a wide crevasse. Without much discussion, we begin to cross the tract of land, as though traversing some great being’s heartbeat. Not trusting my missing leg and my hindered movement as well as being robbed of my wings, I cast a fly spell on myself and begin to cross, quickly discovering how difficult it is to fly when the drumbeat crashes to the ground. Despite this, i cross the field with few troubles, though this is more than I can say for my companions. Looking back, I’m helpless to stop them as they careen into the widening chasm. Without any other choice, I persevere and continue forward. Flying on, I reach a coastline, yet the red sand is not met by a sea or river as I would expect, and instead is slowly enveloped and released by a glossy, jagged black glass sea.

Moving closer, I hear an omnipresent voice, beckoning me towards the oily tide. When asked what I will find if I do, the voice only responds with, “Answers.” As if to give me another choice, a door materializes next to me, but my decision is made. We came here for answers, and to ignore this path would be folly. As I take another step the engulfing surf surrounds me and pulls me down into a cocoon of darkness.

I open my eyes to find myself in yet another strange place. This one being a massive chamber, miles wide and high, the earth strewn with rough geological formations as well as a series of trenches, with the central focal point being a colossal castle, which seems to have grown out of the very earth itself. Populating the expanse are a multitude of Dorans, swarming and writhing like locusts in this already devoid field, hunting and searching for one more scrap of life to be consumed. From behind me I hear a voice, rough and unfamiliar at first, then slowly becoming strikingly close to that of Alton. Following the voice, I see a glossy black figure, made of the same substance as the sea, and now seeming strikingly like the parasite which often engulfed Thormin. The being stands before me, it’s face perfectly matching that of Alton as well, looking as though he had just been drenched in oil.

I ask what this place is. The being explains that this is one of the orchard of minds. The first having been destroyed as the beginning of Doran’s plan, and that this second orchard is for the final stage. It reveals that each of the orchards was it’s own plane, and could only be created by Dorin by sacrificing an eye, thereby giving him absolute god-like control over his domain.

Finally, the figure reveals that to meet and question Darien, a sacrifice must be made. It presents me with a choice, to take Darien into me like the parasite that Thormin fought so long, slowly killing me so that it may form a new body, or if not this, to give up my most powerful magic as tribute.

I didn’t come this far just to destroy myself, or to weaken myself at the point I will need my strength the most and certainly not to unleash yet another monster back into the world when we seek to destroy one which already haunts it, and so I refuse.

Showing clear disgust at my answer, the being melts away, leaving me in this place. Finding no escape nearby, and receiving no answer to my calls, I take flight for the castle. However, within moments, the first of the dorans sees me. Readying myself I place magical barriers around me, and release a torrent of fury into the oncoming horde.

……

Months have passed. I know no peace now. Rest is never easy, and I’m not certain if silence is something I have ever experienced at all anymore. I know in my mind that this isn’t real, but when sleeping and waking can’t end your nightmares, what other choice does one have? The torture of minds in this orchard of minds is making it all the clearer to me. If we fail, death will be the only solace.

In which it's surprisingly not a bad thing to bring a blind man to a dragon battle

Magical transport has never quite sat right with me. One moment, we’re all crowded into a tiny room. The next, we’re in the desert, facing combat. No sense of transition, no time to survey the battlefield. A cursory glance is all I can afford, but it should be sufficient. We appear to be in the desert, facing down a small battalion from Syskillia. The dragons are engaged in the sky with two elves, who upon glance would seem to the infamous Pain and Suffering. Although I had been shown them before, seeing them in person is… chilling. Watching the body of a former ally turned to such foul behavior, it sickens me. I can see Thorman feels similarly. But despite our disgust, there is precious little we can do, for they are in the air and appear to possess a fell power—to put a name to it I can only think of one word: “Obliteration”. With naught but a gesture, one of the twins causes the red dragon’s massive plate armor to simply, vanish, leaving in its place a nothingness that defies explanation—one I have gazed upon once, and hoped never to see again.

We ground troops turn to the soldiers, leaving the dragons to engage the elves without additional interference. In the blink of an eye a bizarre, colorful wall materializes on the battlefield. I presume the mage, Jhulaer is responsible, as I believe she used this same magic in the prison break last night. In addition, I suddenly feel invigorated, unnaturally so—I can assume its her doing as well. Two of the soldiers tumble through the wall, apparently dead, as two of their allies step around it and advance on us. Another charges me, slicing my arm, but causing only pain, no real damage. I respond with a carefully chosen stab between the pieces of his armor, felling him in a single hit. While my blow was impeccable, I confess I would not have expected it to be so immediately lethal—this new blade Alton acquired is masterful—I’ll have to think of a way to thank him properly. Up in the air, Pain and Suffering are flitting about the dragons like gnats, one of them laughing incessantly, as though this entire battle a joke only he understands. Hell, it probably is. The other one obliterates the artificial hand of the one with a metallic arm. He and the black one turn their poisonous breath to him in response, but the black dragon’s acid simply flows around the elf. Figures they’d be magically shielded as well—no point having an all-powerful destroyer unless it were also invulnerable, right? The red dragon takes a more direct approach and merely swallows the laughing one.

Back on the ground, Jhulaer is running crowd control, magically throwing troops into one another, seemingly toward that wall of hers. Thorman is helping her, albeit possibly not intentionally, charging one, and unbalancing him so much that he trips and falls through the wall as well. The blind one manages an impressively precise blow against one of the soldiers. If the first blow was improbable, the parry he levels when the soldier turns to attack me would seem impossible. Although he wouldn’t seem to need it, I hand him the potion Thorman and I procured—no point in wasting it, I suppose. In the air, the bronze and black dragons continue to swat at their tormentor, while the red dragon… explodes. Somehow the laughing one burst his way out from the inside, perhaps using the massive creature’s own flame against him. This is bad.

Things are escalating quickly. With one of the dragons out of the way, the laughing elf turns his attention downward, obliterating the wall Jhulaer had erected. As we continue to dispatch the ground troops, their quite-frankly-unneeded cavalry appears. A dragon of their own and two tough looking sons-of-bitches, all dressed in the colors of Doran—jet black parasite. Thorman is uncertain what to do, and I move to him, offering my assistance in whatever he decides. In actuality our course is chosen for us as the dark dragon throws itself on top of us. I get out of the way, but Thorman does not. He manages to heave the dragon off him, but not without taking a powerful swipe from it. I return the blow. Shortly after, Thorman does as well. One of the two men advances on us as well, and while I hope he’ll come after me, intending to use the two parasite-infested foes against one-another, he clearly views Thorman as the better target. On the other side of the field, the others engage the final parasite creature. Our mage can apparently become a dragon herself, which is, I suppose, fortunate here, as it appears to be a dragon-focused battle. In spite of this we are very definitely outmatched, even without the intervention of the accursed elves.

Although clearly quite focused on the task at hand, I still manage occasional glimpses at the battle above. I saw the one with the magical arm successfully strike at his tormentor (so their defenses are not impenitrable then), but I also see said tormentor simply obliterate the black one, with ease, as though everything done previously was simply toying. After that, the bronze dragon beat a hasty retreat, with the elf in lazy pursuit. He likely would have obliterated his prey as well, had the man who aided us not suddenly appeared in the air and, presumably, teleported him away. Perhaps I should have been paying less attention to the big picture, as none of my follow-up blows against the dark dragon seem to hurt it at all. The “blind” man, on the other hand, has no such issues and manages to knock it down. Despite this fortunate blow, we are still quite outmatched and survival is now the name of the game. Luckily our mage is ready and in the blink of an eye, she’s in the middle of the group and we’re once again, transported in an instant to another place.

We appear back at the Oasis, in the middle of the lake. The pale one is on the shore. I believe his name was Abinsh. We greet him, and tell him of our intended destination, the illusionist’s tomb. He tells us what we already knew, that this Oasis can help direct our way. In conversation he also reveals to me some disturbing information about our supposedly blind friend. Something about Fates, the guardians of existence. He says they can bring back the world from obliteration, and are the key to the gods returning. Frankly this concerns me, particularly given this Hedar’s current condition..s. Yet another issue to add to the ever growing list of things to address, if only these people would ever stop moving long enough to do so. But as always there is no time lose and it’s back into the water, to arrive at the entrance to a gigantic cavern. I’m sure only good things await us within…

Thorman

It has been a long time since I’ve washed the blood of a friend from my hands. It hasn’t gotten any easier. I rub snow between my callused hands and watch the blood drip down..dirtying the snow..a fitting analogy for what has happened.

Balidor is gone.

This morning is a blur. A powerful gift from Alton..breakfast with Jhulaer..a note. Meet me at the lake, alone. Few know of this place and it’s significance, so I know whoever left this knows me. I make haste for this place..this place that means so many different things to me: loss, gathering, happiness..misery. I do meet someone I know..or at least I did. Balidor halts me..a holy knight looming over him..and..

The fire roars and I can’t face this memory. This monument..this holy place of rest..holds no peace for the living. I make for the cliff face..to clear my head..to avoid the flames. I know I could have done more..I could have listened more and talked less..I could have tried to save him…but I didn’t.

Balidor speaks of fate. He speaks of loss. He speaks of fear…of the unkown..of what’s to come and what he’ll become. I speak my piece…knowing he’s heard it before..and if it meant nothing before..why would it now. I have never known Balidor’s heart or his mind, he’s always kept them well guarded, but the panic stricken man who stands before me..I’ve never seen before. I should have seen it comming..but I stood by..as he…

It shouldn’t have ended like this. I watch the remains adrift on the wind…and I wonder if he felt this way..if he looked at me this way when I lost myself. Jhulaer waits patiently…I wonder if she blames me…I wonder if I do.

The holy defender raises his blade. Before I can react, the gleaming sword protrudes from Balidor’s chest, its radiant light shining on him. All I can do is share in his pain..and embrace the man I once called my friend. As he fades, I hear him say “Pelor shan’t take me, nor will Doran. My fate..is my own.” In his final moments..even at his most defeated..as I look at Balidor..I cannot help but admire his courage. His name was Balidor. He was a strong man, and that is how he died.

The cold brings me back and I know we have no time to morn. Jhulaer returns us to the inn and we find Finnian. He says he can help us reach this illusionist’s grave..before he stops..and a look of fear..something I didn’t someone of such power could feel, comes over his face. He says the elves are attacking. These foes we were told not to face…that were too powerful…are attacking the greatest beings I’ve known. If ever there was a chance..it is by their side. Everyone agrees…but I’m afraid..because I know Balidor won’t be the only friend I lose today.

Hedar
I had finally reunited with my companions. Even though it had only been a matter of days, everything that has happened makes the time seem longer. I told them what I had discovered, though I don’t feel it will prove very useful. Three days until Erythnul’s return. I also told them of Pain and Suffering returning to Syskillia in preparation for their god’s ascension. They had apparently just fought a horde of vampires under the control of the first vampire, an old companion of Doran’s. He carried no answers, but simply prolonged the long road that is Doran’s demise. One of our options was to find the resting place of another companion of Doran’s; a powerful illiusionist named Dairen. I told them of my current process; seeking out the known locations where Doran has been seen and undoing his power in any way. I presented the idea of returning to the abandoned building where Balidor had been captured. They agreed to accompany me there in search for possible leads, leaving the journey to Lilinithrie as our second choice.
Once again we explored the abandoned building where I had seen Doran in my vision. I had a small mishap while ascending the rotting stairs, but Balidor was able to restore my wounds. Upstairs we found the pile of ravens again. This time they came to life when I moved too close to them. Doran’s ravens… his spies. Knowing there was a basement I began searching the most logcal locations for an entrance. I placed my hand on the wall next to the ascending staircase and felt the wall latch my hand against it. Thorman whispered thanks for opening the way, though he expressed no recollection of ever saying it. We went down the dark hidden stairway and found ourselves in the same cellar. At the room’s end stood Doran. We confronted him, but he only spoke in riddles, as expected. Thorman beheaded the copy after he could no longer contain his anger. After searching his lab we found a list of prisoners held in the Velistrith prison. Thorman shared a slip of paper with me with “Subject 83 is immune” written on it. We looked… and it was Volke. Volke… my old friend. My sparring companion. Thorman also pointed out that a scar remained on this Doran from the last time we met him when I stabbed him through his skull. He regenerated, reincarnated. A dark though crossed me. I had to know what power lurked inside him, what could possibly bring these copies of the original back so easily. I took a dagger from my bag and cut him open across the torso. Inside, there were no organs, only a dark, black tar-like substance. The same darkness that corrupted Thorman, the same darkness that covers my hand. My hand… I looked, then did not think. I simply had to see what happened. I put my hand into the darkness and I saw myself in the same room. My companions gone. The darkness from Doran’s body congealed into a humanoid shape and blinked. In an instant another Doran appeared, at least a body, a shell. The darkness swirled and corrupted the surrogate Doran, completing the process. This newly regenerated copy proceeded to attack me. I retaliated and delivered a piercing strike with my sword before I witnessed the inside of a prison. Prisoners were transforming, becoming deformed by Doran’s darkness while my old companion lied alone in his cell. I screamed his name and awoke to a never-ending darkness.

How can one fight a war without an enemy, or an army without a leader? How can we win that which seems to have no end? What is the point of any of this? We have no goal, we have no clues and we have no sense of direction. Supposedly going the abandoned crow house was going to bring us answers, and even when we arrived and found that in fact a Dorin did reside, he yielded nothing but more of the same cryptic bullshit, until being prematurely dismantled by the only member of the party who seems to be allowed to speak.

Even our hour of preparation was pointless, as we certainly didn’t see any combat. It makes me wonder why this Dorin couldn’t simply be stopped by a group of peasants, as it certainly doesn’t seem to require warriors. Apparently now the only goal is find the grave of some illusionist, though why that should bring us any closer to anything but our deaths escapes me.

The information gleaned from Brother Jonathan wasn’t as helpful, or as informative as I had wished. I fear that perhaps it was just a gigantic waste of time. In any case we were able to get a hold of Hedar, who requested we meet at the Inn outside of Velistirith in Dracos.

We arrive and get a rooms, I dismiss myself immediately to get some much needed rest, we’ve had an extremely long day. It’s the first restful night I’ve had in a long while, and the morning was no less peaceful….I spend an hour in quiet reflection and prayer. I’ve never felt more at peace with myself. I’ve forgotten how simple life used to be….before the Sanction on Mages was placed, before I took on the Mantle of Grand Cleric, before I donned the Amulet of Pelor, before I was sent by the King to track down a rogue band of traitors.

The rest of the morning continues on just as usual…as usual as it used to be anyways. But just as I figured…it’s short lived. A great explosion rocks the very foundation of the City and we’re immediately drawn out into the streets to seek it’s source. A great Airship sailing over the center of town has caught fire and is careening towards the center spire of the city….though we may be powerless to advert it’s course, we have the power to save and help as many as we can once it hits.

Survivor’s are few, but a few are better than none.

We reunite at the Inn, with Hedar this time, he briefly discusses the information he has learned since he departed our group in the Underdark. We have three days until Erythnul rises once more….Gods be with us.

The vampire lord congratulates us on our victory—it seems he was indeed toying with us, or “testing” as he prefers to call it. Strangely, he makes particular mention of me, and the way I avoided the attention of his troops. I can’t say I’m particularly comfortable to be so noticed for being stealthy, but I suppose a… man… like this is not easily impressed, so perhaps I should take some pride in that. In exchange for our performance, he allows Balidor a chance to speak with the man he sought, the one I could not rouse. He walks to the table and passes his hand over the man’s eyes, in the manner of a magician, which somehow causes the man to rouse—magic no doubt. Balidor’s first question to the man nearly drives me into a rage. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” he asks? We come all this way, risk our lives, for a man he doesn’t even know!? Some things, it would seem, have not changed one bit in my absence. But I bite my tongue—this is hardly the time or place for a confrontation. I leave them to speak, slipping back into the shadows, but not so far as to not listen in. Thorman visits for a bit with the vampire, but I find Balidor’s conversation much more… pertinent. The man, it seems, is called Brother Jonathan, and he is the last follower of Pelor, excepting Balidor himself. Jonathan speaks of Balidor’s role, as the vessel of Pelor, and of the ritual which must take place to restore the god. It requires a place of strong magic and the blood of a follower (and I imagine it must be a true follower, no simple quick convert would suffice). Most likely this is why Doran wanted Jonathan imprisoned here—to keep his blood locked away and prevent the return of one who could stop him. Balidor clearly sees this destiny of him ending in his demise, but Jonathan tries to offer him hope, telling him there may be a better end. Myself, I’m not so sure.

When their conversation ends, Jhulaer reaches out to another of their allies via magic, while I confer privately for a moment with Vonerost, at his request. When I return, they are debating whether or not to rally with this former companion. As no one seems to have any alternative suggestions, we decide to do so, and almost instantly, I find myself, once again, outside Vilesterith.

Is this what life is to be now? Not 24 hours since I’ve returned to the world and already I find myself in yet another struggle for survival. Vampires. After all I’ve seen, it doesn’t surprise me that such creatures exist, and yet the legends I’ve heard do little to prepare me for such an encounter. I had hoped perhaps our allies had a firmer plan, but it has quickly become apparent that they, too are simply winging it. I must resolve to try and end this nonsense as quickly as possible, by doing what I do best, vanish into the shadows. While the others keep the monsters busy, I shall my way carefully toward the table, where what I assume to be the man Balidor seeks lies. Perhaps if I can rescue him we can escape this place and leave the combat behind.

I travel carefully and deliberately, sticking to the shadows. Haste attracts attention, and a slow pace allows me a chance to survey the battlefield. The creatures’ motions are unnatural, strangely fluid and smoother than would seem possible. Their blows, too, seem to contain more power than they should—Thorman seems to be getting weaker with every blow. I feel terrible watching this from afar—I want to go to his aid—but rescuing our quarry is our best chance of escape. I can do more for them from here.

The master of this place does not seem to have moved from his seat, watching the action as though it were a sport for his entertainment. It probably is. His demeanor reminds me of a cat, sinewy and predatory. And much like a cat, it appears he likes toying with his food. In any case, this works to my benefit, as he seems to be paying me no attention. With any luck, he doesn’t even know I’m here, although I’m not foolish enough to assume this as fact.

A moment of panic as one of the creatures approaches me, no more than a foot away. Thinking quickly, I remember an old legend from my youth—that vampires are mystically fascinated by mirrors. I pull out a small pocket mirror and hold it out in front of me, but the creature gives no indication that it notices it, or me. Could I possibly be that well hidden? At this distance I would imagine it should be able to sense me, perhaps smell my blood. No time to question it though, I’ll have to keep an eye on it and press forward.

In short time, I make it to the table, affording me another chance to survey the battle. It appears the drow mage who accompanied us, I believe she was called Jhulaer, has turned on the others, as she appears to be directing a bolt of her magic at the others. Wait, no, her movements are stiff, almost mechanical, and she moves with no purpose. Some sort of magical control, no doubt. These things are clever, figuring out how to turn our own allies against us. The sooner this can be ended the better.

Assured that I remain unobserved, I turn my attention to the prisoner. He appears to be in the murky unconsciousness of the drugged, and multiple needle marks in his arms would seem to confirm that. Nonetheless, I must try to rouse him, as it would be dangerous to the point of foolishness to attempt to carry him out alone. I undo the straps and attempt to rouse him—when physical contact doesn’t do it, I give him a universal antitoxin, in the hope it can counteract whatever medicine he is currently under. I notice that the sounds of battle have changed slightly—perhaps some new combatant has entered the fray, but I have no opportunity to look—it would seem my attempts to free this man have finally attracted some unwanted attention.

The vampire claws at me and I can feel it draining away my energy, making me slower and weaker. The sensation is not dissimilar to what I endured in my former prison, but physical now, instead of mental. But with some small difficulty, I manage to fend the creature off—it may no longer be human, but its body still shares at least some of the same vulnerabilities. As I finish dispatching it, I suddenly feel reinvigorated—our spellcaster must have returned to her senses. Just in time, too, as another vampire approaches. This time, though, I’m prepared, and I slay this one without significant harm.

The man on the table still remains unconscious—I fear whatever influence he is under, it may be supernatural, which means I can do nothing for him. So much for ending this smoothly. I leave shaed to watch over the man, instructing him to alert me if there are any changes, and charge forth into the fray. It seems things have gotten worse yet since last I checked. While many of the vampires have been turned to dust, several yet remain, and they have been joined by two new horrors—some sort of demon—terrible and fiery, and perhaps worse, a massive automaton of some sort, wielding what I can only compare to a cannon for a hand. Balidor appears to be challenging the demon, and I’m content to leave it to him, as I haven’t the slightest idea how deal with such a thing. I’m not sure I’ll fare much better against the mechanoid, but it at least seems to have mobility issues, and that’s something I can work with.

I make several attempts to grapple my way to the top of the machine in the hopes of being able to sabotage it, or perhaps even disable it. I feel a small sense of familiarity as I am reminded of the battle against Doran so many years ago, a memory that perhaps Thorman shares, as he seems to be attempting the same maneuver, literally and otherwise, from another direction. After several attempts fail—it’s much harder to hit a moving target, slow though it may be—I decide to leave the top to Thorman and work on adapting my plan slightly. Pulling out some rope, I tie up one of the creature’s legs, counting on it being too large, clunky, and armored to really notice me. I then take the rope and begin winding it around both legs, hoping to entangle it enough to trip it.

But as it happens, my efforts are not necessary as, due I presume to the efforts of my companions, the construct explodes. I tuck and roll to avoid the debris, then take final stock of the arena. The vampires are all gone and it appears Balidor has triumphed against his foe as well. The battlefield is clear, although I doubt this is all that lurks down here. And as we stand, scattered and scathed, but victorious, our host finally rises from his seat.

Thorman

From one unwanted place to the next we travel, drawn by some malevolent or ironic force that takes pleasure in returning us to the pinnacles of fear in our lifetimes. I’ve managed to bring Kestral back from the depths of Carceri, or rather Nerul chose to let us return. We were brought to the remnants of the oasis, a once sacred place tainted by death and magic. There we met the last of the abhorents who seems to as lost as much hope as the rest of Tera. With his help we were able to locate Jhulaer and were sent through some portal in the center of the oasis to her location…Spellscale. From one unwanted place to the next…I can’t remember what horrible place will appear next in our journey…or perhaps I just don’t want to. Upon on departure I saw a vision…a warning of Blood Raven’s demise. We must hurry…I’ve had one to many premonitions or visions to dismiss them as trivial.

Kestral and I find the ruins of this monumental prison…so this is what Balidor spoke of…where he fell. A figure in the distance turns out to be the Minotaur we spoke to in the underdark. He points us to hole in the earth…a tunnel leading down to the core of this place…where Jhulaer, Balidor and Alton have gone. Begrudingly, we descended. It’s a long journey down before we finally met up with them. A look crosses Balidor’s face upon seeing who’s in my company, but of surprise or disappointment I am not sure. We eventually came to what seems to be the finally floor of this place, a large chamber with marked and locked doors…housing evils I care not to know. We are only here for one. After some inspection of this chamber I find an opening in the floor, which Kestral manages to trigger. We are lead down to a vast catacomb filled with rows of pillars…hiding whatever I can see moving on the ceiling. This place is ancient…ominous and unnatural. I have a strong suspicion this existed long before spellscale was built…that perhaps it layed the very foundation for this accursed place. A throne. We come to the end this chamber to find the being we seek sitting atop his perch. A predator. That is all I see when I meet his gaze. I’ve spent days…years watching animals hunt. Wolves chasing deer, owls watching mice…in his eyes I see the same piercing glare those animals had… that sees only one thing. Prey. The man we are here for was on a table to his left…I can only imagine the horrors he’s endured if he still lives. Soon we learn of two key things. The first being that Dorin brought the man we are here to rescue here and that he is responsible for this..Vonerost’s imprisonment here. The vampire speaks of something Dorin possess…something precious to him. The second…is that he has no intention letting his prisoner go. Balidor steps forward, faces this monster and states what we all know. That we will take him by force…or die trying. He will not be all that we fight…I don’t know if the others have noticed as well…but he is not alone in this place. We’ve fought nothing like him before…let alone whatever mysteries this place holds. I draw my blades, and the fray begins.

Hedar
Inside a castle… or a cathedral? I see them. Pain and Suffering. They stand before a crowd that chants the name Erythnul. The twins of destruction announce their intent on traveling to Tantalas for the coming of their god. Afterward they follow a cat out of the building, an animal possessing the eyes of Doran. The elves were led to a familiar sight; the abandoned house where Doran captured Balidor. Inside they stood before Doran. He warned them of an individual coming to stop them.
Wind brushes my face. I had fallen asleep on the airship heading to Velistirith. I struggle to comprehend the dream, or vision I had just seen. Pov revealed himself from the shade and noticed something wrong with me. I told him of my vision. Weary as I was to let Pov reveal this information to Locklear, I don’t see how leaving my current ally in the dark anymore can help complete my task. What is my task anymore? The elves will likely be out of reach by the time I arrive in the city. I told Fyord and Haargrim of my vision and the danger we will likely encounter, but they seemed indifferent to it and a bit doubtful. Can I blame them? I would not believe myself if put in their place. Locklear approached with Pov and began to question my intentions after we arrive. I told him I would visit that same abandoned house. I will seek out Doran’s presence there. And this time… there will be no running. No matter how many of him spawn from that place of darkness, I will stand my ground to the bitter end until I discover clues to his weakness. Locklear expressed his intent to bring Pov to the other chosen. I did not argue, but simply repeated myself; I side with whatever decision Pov makes in this regard. I have told him what I know about the previous chosen. I will do nothing to prevent whatever his fate may be.
As the journey continued an Osylith airship was spotted in the horizon, heading straight for us; fast. I immediately warned Locklear and the captain before the battle began. Despite my personal favor toward Osylith in the war, they currently endangered a chosen; a potential answer to this world’s downfall. I decided to avoid engaging in the crossfire and cast invisibility on myself. I quickly found myself in the engine room of the ship and took the engineers hostage. I brought them to the deck. Fyord and I questioned them, discovering that they were attacking the ship for its cargo. I quickly made way back onto our ship and searched the deck below, finding nothing of value. After Haargrim cut the lines loose from the enemy ship I realized that they had come for Pov. If Osylith carries knowledge of the chosen and wishes to prevent their union, there is no doubt they knew something of Danden’s true intentions. And if Osylith knows of the chosen… who is to say Doran does not. Doran wanted to control the storm… The chosen were said to stop the storm… Doran killed the chosen… History is about to repeat itself. But what am I to do? Convince Pov to leave Locklear? Persuade Locklear that Danden is not in his own mind? Or let the present fate decide what will come of it.

Our arrival at the ruins of Spellscale went without incident, and for a time we rested, attempting to make sense of the events of the past day. For some time, Alton and I spoke, and I explained to him how he had come to be with us again. After collecting ourselves, we began to search the ruins for a way into the underchamber which supposedly houses this “first vampire”. In an effort to help, the minotaur pounded his fists into the ground, giving what he referred to as a sort of signal to a friend. Not knowing what he meant, I merely waited and watched. While we waited, Brier came to speak with me, and expressed his concern that, being so close to a Dorin, as he felt he was, he wasn’t certain he would be able to control his own actions, and could become a detriment to the party, and because of this, he needed to leave. Shortly thereafter, the “friend” arrived. However, I had not expected this friend to be a bulette, or landshark, nevertheless, the friend, began to dig a tunnel for us, and after a short while, we began to make our descent. Before we got much further, I recieved word, supposedly from Thormin, as to his intent to join us again. Wary of the truth of this statement, as it came from one I didn’t know, I opted for vague words and descriptions, that hopefully only Thorman would know.

Thorman

Hell. I stand on a smoldering peak, facing something I know far too well; battle. Clashing and felled warriors strewn across these endless plains that lie before me. I’ve arrived in Carceri. After another futile attempt to rouse what’s left of Balidor’s humanity, I managed to find passage here, at the expense of a much lighter coin purse and the mental haze and fatigue that now hangs over me like a fog. It matters not. I will no longer stand idly by while a friend suffers needlessly for other’s mistakes. I’ve come here for one, singular purpose. I will free Kestral, or I will die trying.
I drew upon on my blades and my will and entered the endless fray. I knew not how long I would fight, or where this battle would take me, but it isn’t long before something different occurs. A portal, an obvious variance on this plain of not but blood and iron. Having no other recourse, I entered it. I found myself in room, dim, eerie, and not alone. A man sits in the corner, familiar. I can’t believe my eyes as I see him..Kestral..alive. Something sticks in the back of my mind as I go to him..this was far too simple. He doesn’t see me..or chooses not to. I can’t imagine how long he’s been here or what he’s seen. I choose to get him moving, with his help or without it. He follows, not reluctant but not willing. He seems empty..unable to grasp if I’m real..if he wants me to be. We trek endlessly in halls of glowing vines…nothing changes..no doors appear..no exit gets closer. Kestral says little..as do I. Now is not the time. Finally I lash out in anger at the vines clinging to the wall. A liquid springs forth from the wound. I managed to avoid it..Kestral was not so lucky. Some sort of acid has left him scarred…but I know this is simply the beginning of the pain.
The light from the vines fades like blood seeping out from cut veins. The light from Faith is all that remains as a noise emanates through the halls. A door. We enter and are blinded by the sudden surge of light. We’ve found the source of the vines. An enormous plant creature stands at the back of this room, guarded by..minotaurs? no…some plant-like abominations molded to match them.
We fought them. Kestral seems to have learned a few new tricks in his time here, as I lose track of his movements quickly. Slowly but surely one monster after another falls until Kestral and I stand atop a staircase, the room slowly filling with that same acid. I can accept this. A death by the side of a good friend. Preferable to a life lead in selfish pursuits of ignorance.
A knock. A door behind us. We found ourselves in a room..a glowing orb in the center. A voice speaks..one I’ve heard before. Nerul. He brought me to Kestral..brought us here. He speaks of his return…of his vessel who now stands with me. We are all just pawns…and drift to the will of those with the power to play the game. We have little choice. Regardless…I’ve found my friend…and by my will or not…he’ll return.

The time to act is now. I grow weary of Thorman’s incessant need to hear himself talk, speech after speech. Under different circumstances he would have made a fine preacher for his sermons can be described as such; excessive and inconsequential. Too long have I simply stood in his shadow listening to his incoherent babble, and where has it gotten us? No where. The time for action has come and I’ll be damned if he drags us down any further with his idle chatter.

But as luck would have it, Thorman has disappeared and I can wait for him no longer. Typical Thorman, just when we find a lead, a path to follow, he goes off and creates his own. No matter, he shan’t tarry us any further. I urge Juhlaer to continue on our mission with haste; the quest ahead of us is time sensitive, every minute that ticks away could be the very last for our quarry, this Brother Jonathan. Gods only know what tortures he could be suffering at the hands of a vampire lord, let alone one deemed evil enough to be locked away within the confines of Spellscale Asylum.

Before we can leave however, Juhlaer informs me that one of her “gifts” from the card game we played was the ability to change a single event within her life and that it must be used immediately or else she shall lose it forever. And her mind is fixed upon one single person; Alton. My mind immediately wants to dismiss her attempt to change the past, nothing but suffering has come from past attempts at a feat such as this in addition to my knowledge that saving the life of one has always cost another theirs. But my heart, feels the polar opposite; I know all too well the pain that she is suffering, I too was witness to the death of one I loved…and I would do anything, absolutely anything to bring her back. And for the first time in a long while, in a battle between heart and mind; the mind loses.

Nothing seems to happen. But memories begin to flood me, memories of two separate time lines; one in which Alton dies and one in which he lives. I wouldn’t believe the new memories if I hadn’t seen Alton with my own eyes. And there he was, standing right in front of us across the street. Juhlaer ran ahead and embraced him with such enthusiasm and vigor that I have never seen from her before. But our happy reunion was short-lived however, we were soon interrupted by the Drow woman who sent us against the Minotaur not but a few days ago. We would find out rather quickly that she was not alone.

The battle was swift and the injuries were minimal, thankfully. Our brief encounter with the Drow revealed that they had taken our Minotaur ally prisoner and his execution would occurring within the hour. We quickly hopped atop of Juhlaer’s scaled back, for she had transformed into a great dragon in the midst of combat, and made way swiftly to the ruling counsel’s chambers. Our path there was wrought with obstacles. With great force Juhlaer was able to burst through a wall directly into the counsel’s chambers. We were met with even more enemies there; they had been waiting. We did not dally and stand to fight, this was to be a quick rescue mission and against all odds it succeeded.

Though I fear we have only put ourselves into far greater danger by going to Spellscale. “Out of the frying pan, and into the fire” as they say….

Fear has Found Us

Hedar
We advanced into the room. Inside there was a long table with silverware set for a meal. Against the wall was a minotaur hanging from the wall with stakes in his hands. We freed him and attempted to tend to his wounds. He said his name was Hagrrim and he could only remember darkness before his arriving here. I offered him to join us and perhaps find out whom or what brought him here. We advanced back into the common room and I made my way to the door at my left. Inside was a lone candle and from the next door a banshee attacked us. Its horrifying screech killed Caulkin and turned one of Fyord’s hands to pure ice without leaving a trace of magic. We attempted to revive Caulkin, but to no avail. Could my new wish alter events like this; replay events leading to one’s death? Whether it could or not, I decided to save it for another time. Fyord carried Caulkin’s body outside while Hagrrim had come across a bundle of cloth. The cloth began to move and from it appeared a decrepit hag. My only assumption was that this hag had to be Alice, Doran’s right hand, mentioned numerous times by Thorman and Balidor. I attempted to pry for information from her, but only discovered that she and Doran expect Erythnul to awaken five days from now, and that I play a central role somehow; the raven bathed in blood… She retreated back into the darkness. Without any desire to waste more time with her I threw my last vial of oil at her and ignited the fabric with a spark spell. No sound or movement came from the burning figure in the dark. When I returned into the main hall I observed Locklear aiming a drawn bow at me; he noticed my human self. Despite every ounce of my being wishing to take revenge for Alton’s death, I simply told him that we needed to set our differences aside for the time being. I also discovered that Irony is still alive, held in a mage prison in Tantalas. I advanced to the door with light coming from underneath. Inside there was a large window, a desk, and a man sitting behind it; Doran. I began to talk with the evil presence before me. Like Alice, he only responded with illogic. An intense pain began to flow through me, showing me… visions… fifty of Doran’s spawn charging out of an abbey door… Once I had regained control of my mind I stabbed the evil man through his head. Then just below us I heard the abbey doors slam open; the horde. I quickly ordered everyone to gather round me for our escape. A dark part of me considered leaving Locklear behind. Despite the fact he killed my friends and I could kill him now, he was protecting us and willing to fight against the same evil I seek to destroy. I teleported all of us out, not knowing where we’d end up. There’s only one thing I know for certain. Erythnul returns in five days. Five days could be all that I have left to live, but in those five days I will do anything I can to rid this world of Pain and Suffering.

Countless times I have walked this path. I know its every twist and turn. There is nothing but the path and the path leads to nothing. Thorman is urging me on, as though brave words and blind hope are all that’s needed to escape. He knows nothing of where he is, and it is clear he has no plan. I was like him once—I assume—certain that perseverance and endurance could break even the greatest prison in existence. I suppose I shall have to show him the truth of his new world.

We walk for a time. He is still very much of the old world, lighting our way with his weapon, casting strange new shadows to play with. That will at least pass some time, until the magic runs out of course. At times he breaks the silence, attempting to encourage me. He doesn’t understand. It’s not that I lack courage—there simply is no use for it here. I offer token responses, more out of reflex than conscious effort—I’m not even certain what I say. This will all pass soon enough. In time he will learn the ways of this place.

As the path gets more difficult, his curiosity finally overcomes his determination. I slow my pace to allow him time to investigate the vines that line this place. To see their pulsing veins, full of blood that burns. To reach out to the plant-like flesh, to feel the sting of their hidden defenses, the long thin needles that pierce skin and soul alike. I need not watch his discoveries, I have lived them. I even know what he will do next—try to sting it back. I tried this as well. The vines can be cut, but they are thick, and their acidic juices will injure any attacker, and the tools he bears, far too quickly to do any lasting damage. As I wait, the part of me that still feels hope wonders if maybe when this fails, he will learn give up.

But this time I was wrong. It must be his weapon. His powerful, magical sword—it seems different from what I remember, perhaps it’s new—it cuts deep into the vines, severing their connection to whatever gives them life, and dousing me in their purple blood. The pain defies description, it is the pain of terrible death, of flesh stripped from bone, of waking from the deepest of nightmares. For the first time in an eternity, I feel.

We continue down the path and force myself to remember the gnomes, the monks of chaos. They taught me much about control and I need their skills now to manage the pain of the exposed tissue on my jaw and throat. The blow Thorman dealt was clearly a killing one, at least for that section of vine, as the light it cast went dark. This is something new, I no longer can assume I know this place. And sure enough, no sooner do I think that than we hear a loud noise in the distance. A pounding, or a banging of some sort. It continues, for some time. When it doesn’t seem to be moving appreciatively closer to us, we decide to press forward. The path is still familiar looking, but as we move closer to the source, I find myself anticipating our progress for once. Perhaps it’s finally time to meet my jailer.

But that sense of excitement is soon tempered as the path ends, the same way it always does, in front of a very familiar-looking door. The pounding is louder than ever now, but I know what faces us on the other side is disappointment and emptiness. And again, I am wrong.

The room is, in most ways, not unlike the rest of this place. It is made of stone, with walls covered in the same indigo-blooded vines. But is it not my room. And it is not empty. Three hulking figures, nearly three times the size of a man, are gathered around a section of the floor, seemingly digging a pit. Their backs are turned to us, but they appear to be large minotaur-like beasts. In one corner is a stone platform which leads to what can only be the source of the vines. An enormous flower-like creature with razor petals, pulsing with purple acid, and possessing a horrific beak in the center where the stem would connect. It lets out an ear-curdling screech, alerting its minions to our presence and, as they turn it is clear they are not minotaurs, at least not now, as their faces are miniatures of the plant beast’s. A familiar, if long-forgotten feeling comes over me as my pain and suffering are buried under a surge of adrenaline and my mind turns to tactics. The giant plant-beast is clearly the key to this place—it has grown around the entire facility and is likely in control of the monsters now facing us. Defeating it is likely our best chance for escape, so I make its death my primary objective. I drop my cloak at the door (the last thing I need is to get it caught on something) and quietly instruct shaed to cover Thorman as make my way to the platform, dodging vines as I go.

There are stairs leading up to the platform, which almost appears to be some sort of sacrificial stand, as it drops off straight into the “body” of the vile creature. But the path is criss-crossed by more vines and would take too much time to traverse, particularly with Thorman and shaed under threat. Fortunately there is a wooden pulley system mounted to the ceiling that will make a perfect shortcut. As soon as I am in range, I point my left arm to the rigging and launch my grapple, covering the distance almost instantaneously. I dismount quickly and turn to inspect my target.

Up close it’s every bit as hideous, and I can now see it is riddled with the same red needles its tendrils conceal. It seems quite resilient—the only possible point of vulnerability a quick survey reveals is the space around its beak. I quickly check in with shaed—Thorman is holding his own against the beasts, with the shadow attacking their mobility in support, but it worries how long my friend will be able to hold out, as the creatures hit very hard.

With time of the essence, I decide to test the creature’s surface resistance. It turns out the flesh in its “face” is much thinner than that of its vines, as I manage to land a couple of hits with throwing daggers, which remain firmly lodged within. Next I try a flask of alchemist’s fire, hoping its as vulnerable to the flame as a regular plant would be, but despite a direct hit, it does not seem to suffer greatly from the affects of the potion. Fortunately I have a couple vials of Liquid Ice as well, another common enemy of plants. This seems more effective, but I barely have time to consider how to use this information when a scream from shaed grabs my attention.

It would appear the beasts below can strike even the immaterial, and they do indeed hit hard. If my shadowy companion had physical form I would call him bloodied, and by only a single blow. I tell him to retreat to me, as it does neither of us good for him to fall to these things. Thorman still seems to be standing his ground, he may even have felled one of his foes, although now that he lacks backup, I decide to redouble my efforts. It comes to me in a moment—the only clear path. I am not a ranged combatant—I cannot deal with this creature from afar. If I fall here, today, at least I go free from the darkness of my memory. The least I can do is save my friend from the fate that befell me. With that thought in mind, I draw my trusty rapier and leap toward the creature with the blade outstretched.

Miraculously I hit my target perfectly, the point of weapon buried in the creature’s face. I find footholds with my previously thrown daggers, and attempt to grind the thin blade in as much as possible, until the monster lets out a gurgling scream and begins to sink, almost as though deflating. The acid blood begins filling its chamber as it dies and I steel myself against what is bound to be an excruciatingly painful demise. But then I hear a shout—my name—and I see Thorman atop the platform, stretching his hand to me. I dislodge my rapier from the now-corpse of the plant-creature and take one more leap of faith, finally accepting the reassuring grip of an old friend.

Once on solid ground, our position doesn’t look much better, as the purple liquid is filling the rest of the room as well. Our way back to the path is nearly closed already and we could never make it back in time. I survey the room one last time, only to discover behind us another door, certainly not present earlier. I walk to it and throw my companions a shrug—apparently we have won this trial. Perhaps now we must go deeper into hell.

What lies beyond is a new degree of nothing. Even with my newly developed night vision, I cannot see beyond our own light sources, and I light my bullseye latern for the first time in ages. Likewise, there doesn’t seem to be any nearby walls—the entire thing must be a very large chamber. We continue forward, using the pattern of the stones in the floor as a makeshift path. Eventually, we see a glimmer of light in the distance. We head for it, again out of lack of other options. When we arrive, we are met with a voice. My warden, at last. The lord of hell itself. Nerull.

Thorman confronts him, as Thorman does. Decries him for imprisoning a friend and ally. The god claims his right to take mortal lives, both as the ruler of death, and as a means of punishment for our former ally, Balidor. It almost makes me laugh, the sheer ignorance he displays. As if my loss would be anything approaching a punishment for that arrogant bastard. Shows how out of touch these gods are with the world they wish to rule. Nerull continues to brag how we are only escaping now because it is what he wishes, part of his plan to return to the mortal world through a new vessel. Me. He believes he has sculpted me into the perfect conduit and is releasing me now, on the condition I work for him—eliminating his enemies, Erythunl and Pelor. Very well, let him think that. For the time, our desires are in sync. If this is the price of our freedom, so be it. At least he gave me enough warning to prepare.

Pale indigo light casts the dimmest of illumination upon an endless hallway, featureless, but for the walls, lined, or perhaps composed entirely, by thorny vines. Arteries criss-cross the overgrowth, pulsing with the same purple glow that fills the chambers, in a way menacing without overt threat, save the sections of the path in which they travel down from the walls to cross the path, as though the separate sides were briefly reaching out to one another. A sharp eye might chance to catch something in the peripheral—movement, as if a dancing shadow—but that, of course, would be impossible, as the glow which permeates the world is uniform, a place in which shadows cannot possibly live. Occasionally at one end of the hall there is a door. Less occasionally, it opens, revealing a sparse room. And on rarest occasion, a figure passes through it, solemn and silent, treading carefully, almost ritually. It does not look up, for it has seen this place an infinite times before. It does not speak, for it knows there is no one worth speaking to. And it does not fear, for fear only exists for those who yet have something to lose.

Kestral

Choices. I’ve made so many choices in my life. I… never claimed to have all the right answers, but I always took pride in making decisions and standing by them. I thought… it was the best I could do… to make the hard decisions… to keep pushing forward… What a fool I was. I thought the world was against me… that I was doing the best I could against it. But it turns out… my choices… I brought suffering upon myself… and those around me.

Some people think hell is burning or freezing. Physical pain. Those people know nothing of suffering. The true horror of this place is so much more than pain, more than the imprisonment. It’s the relentless honesty, stripping away the comfort of all the little lies we tell ourselves, to protect us from the harsh realities of our lives. I… deserve this. I finally understand… this place is where I belong… where my decisions can no longer harm anybody else. I will remain here for eternity… if that’s what-

Wait. Is this… some new kind of torment? It’s not bad enough I must relive my decisions over and over, I’m now visited by the ghosts of those I’ve wronged? It must be a vision, because he can’t possibly be here. Perhaps if I don’t respond, he’ll disappear. Go away, Thorman, and leave me to persist in solitude.

“Balidor” the unknown voice whispers to me once more. Ever since we traveled to the Underdark I have been haunted by an unknown presence. This time the voice came from the window, never in my wildest imagination would I have guessed the sight that now greeted me; Pelor. Or at least Pelor as I remember him, his appearance mirrored mine save for the fact he has not aged as I have.

He spoke to me of his coming awakening, and despite our sorted path he still needs me in order to complete it, it seems that he cannot survive without me. And given the time I have had to reflect upon it; neither can I. It seems our fates were forever linked the moment I donned the Amulet of Pelor those many, many years ago. I have lost so much since the day we parted ways, I’ve lost the man I once was, the woman I once loved, and the companions I once called friends. I am dying, this is the reality, my time on this earth is short and I fear I no longer have the strength to face what is ahead, my only chance may be to join with Pelor and become one. Who then, would be able to stand against us?

In order for the awakening to happen however, I must find his disciple, his prophet, a priest who goes by Brother Jonathan. I remember him, it was him that raised me from the dead at Spellscale Asylum. It seems he was never able to leave that cursed place, and worse he has become the prisoner of a powerful vampire. A vampire who is rumored to have existed long before Dorin, and at one time was a companion of his. There is a fear in my heart I have not known before; fear of a powerful entity that we may have no chance of defeating. It is likely that this quest is folly and in it we shall meet our fates. In any case this journey will take my life; whether it is at the hands of this vampire, Dorin, or my joining with Pelor. I will not survive, and I greet my fate with open arms for I no longer have any connections to keep me here, attached to this mortal shell.

I inform Jhulaer and Thorman of my plans and ask they make haste with me, I hold nothing from them, there is no need to. Not wishing to intrude upon them any further I make my leave after being informed that we shall have to wait at least one day before starting our journey so that Jhulaer may be outfitted with a new leg. I shall simply have to wait in the meantime.

A mere hour passes before I hear Jhulaer’s voice, informing me that she must speak with me and ask if I will meet with her. Upon confirmation I am instantly ripped from the comfort of my room to some sort of empty void. A voice speaks to us telling us we are playing a sort of game, that each of us must take a share of ten encounters. Wary of what we might be facing, I opt to only take two. After we were decided a pedestal rise from the floor, on it appear fifty-four cards in total, we are told to draw the amount we chose.

I was hesitant to continue; a memory from years past surfaces….one of pain, suffering, loss….these cards feel like a long lost nightmare. But I resign to my fate, the choice was made, I must follow through. “The Paladin” the voice cries out as I draw my first, a sword appears at my side…but no ordinary sword, a Holy Avenger! Most fortuitous indeed. I draw my second card, “The Peacock” I begin to feel my skin crawl and harden….it’s painful…but I feel stronger…but slower at the same time. And eye for an eye as it were. I relish the thought that I was able to avoid any extreme misfortune, but I choose not to tempt fate any further and make my leave.

The void disappears and I reappear once again in my room at the in. But immediately the threshold begins to quiver and shake beneath me, and the inn collapses around me. Thankfully I able to avoid any serious harm….Thorman however was not so lucky……this is a most auspicious beginning to our journey out from the Underdark.

I’ve traveled alone for quite some time, with only the occasional companion for short expanses, but perhaps this is a chance for a change. A half orc, a drow, and two Halflings make for odd company, but hopefully such an odd group will be unique enough to handle most obstacles. For the time being I seem to be taking the role of guide, and while I don’t fully understand our goal, I’m happy to be on a fresh path, even if it means taking roads I’ve traveled before.

I was meditating in the barn when Haskan and Pov entered and introduced themselves. After a good sleep and a hearty breakfast, we spent several hours earning our keep, herding cattle. After we finished, the drow expressed interest in traveling to ________, and asked if in my travels I had been there, as they were looking to make their way there. They invited our host as well, but it wasn’t until we had hit the road that he caught up and told us that despite his wife not being happy with him, he was going to join us as well. Perhaps our wanderlust had rubbed off. As we walked I soon picked up bits of information about my companions. The drow seems to have some magical ability. Not something one sees much these days, but it’s not surprising that the denizens of the deep would still have some magical aptitude. The Halflings seem to have some abilities of their own, one seems to almost disappear into the shadows, while the other has displayed some control over the elements… how I came across these three in this day and age, I don’t truly know. It must all be part of Farlarghn’s road for me.

After several days travel, we made our way to the drow’s destination. What he wanted with this old building I don’t know, but it appears that a certain archer may be determined to prevent our entrance.

I start this log in the last place I thought I would every find myself again…the one place I vowed to never return to. The underdark. This hell that stole everything from me…now seems so pitiful in comparison to the hell I’ve brought on myself. We sought council with the minotaur, as if we had much of a choice in the matter. Slaughtering these brave souls before I finally fell, gored and stomped on isn’t my idea of a righteous death. We hear their leader, Marak, speak in a council chamber, taking sips of what would kill most normal men. He knows of Doran…one of the few who knows that name..and while no leads and unanswered questions are frustrating I hope it stays that way. He speaks of his father, Totem…a great warrior who fought alongside Doran. His father was not alone in that venture. There were more members of that party…some of which may still exist. A mention of the first vampire is made…sweet Tera…what monsters would conspire with him…let alone rival him in power…it frightens me to think where we will have to go for answers. Finally we arrive to the meat of this conversation…the drowe war. We state our case, but he states the obvious. Drowe acts of war and cruelty cannot go unanswered..and there could not be a more stubborn race to try to make humble. We leave with a mission..and not a simple one. To see to it that these two races stop butting heads…no pun intended. On our journey back to the Drowe city we pick the bodies clean. A few useful items are found, some more unique than others. Balidor seems jumpy..on edge. I can’t say as I blame him…being down in this place makes my skin crawl. Suddenly Blood Raven falls…unprovoked. I don’t know what ails him but i have a terrible feeling…so I take him up. As i turn to ensure Blood Raven and Jhulaer that he is fine…they are frozen. My blood takes their lead..as I can barely inch closer to them as I see Balidor’s eyes shift..change. Along with that..a voice…an utterance I haven’t heard neigh on two centuries. The parasite…it’s primal form..not the docile symbiosis I knew for so long. The hate…the rage…nothing but pain in it’s voice as it speaks from my friend. Warning me…foretelling…it’s as vague as I remember.
I wake. Balidor kneels above me…calling my name. The image of his twisted visage..that guttural emanation..flashes in my eyes. I get up, quickly. I see Balidor…Jhulaer walks ahead..no sign of Blood Raven. I question Balidor..hesitantly..not trusting myself as much as him. He tells me both myself and Blood Raven collapsed..unconcious…and were muttering in unison..warnings..prophecies…the exact things I heard Balidor exclaim. I don’t know what to make of it. Balidor berates me…warning me to get control of whatever is inside of me. He above all others should know…if it still dwells inside of me…there is no stopping it. Something is off…Balidor’s words are heated..panicked. I catch up to Jhulaer to hear her side of this story. She remains mostly silent…simply confirming Balidor’s word..says Blood Raven ran ahead. There is something both aren’t telling me. We make for the inn, hoping to find Blood Raven there, but all we find is Pov waiting patiently. I ask for his help…trusting this boy I know so little of…and I ask him to find Blood Raven. He departs almost immediately and I make for Balidor’s room. I won’t have secrets. He tells me what he tried to do…what nothing other than fate and timing stopped. He seems complacent…unaltered. He’ll do it again. I attempt to sway the good man I once I knew, but my words fall on deaf ears. It’s sad to see the man who was once a pinnacle of strength…a pillar of faith to all…give up on everyone so easily…even himself.
We couldn’t waste anymore time so we gathered and Jhulaer asks the guards where she can meet with Avalyn. The instruct us to head for the council chamber. As we do, Jhulaer makes a stop along the way, an artifiser by the looks of it. She wants a better leg. I flex my right hand and grin, knowing the need. She makes the order and we wait outside this place for our contact. We sit in silence…not knowing what to say to eachother…what hasn’t already been said…what needs to be said. I worry for Blood Raven. I hope Pov is successful. Avalyn finally meets us, and asks if our mission was successful. Jhulaer works her silver tongue, though I don’t know how much this drowe witch is fooled. She hears our request, what the council needs to hear…but again I fear that words will fail us. She departs and we return to the inn.
Pov ushers me into his room and tells me he’s found Blood Raven, but relief is short lived. Blood Raven is leaving. The letter Pov hands me, for my eyes only, states Blood Raven cannot be a burden to us and couldn’t live with hurting anyone…especially Jhulaer. He speaks of the wand we found…the one that shows enemies. I recall both Balidor and Jhulaer speaking of this as well…but it seems wrong to place such importance on the meaning of a magical relic. Finally he says he intends to seek Doran..to continue the mission alone. As i sit on the end of the bed and read his words I feel like I’m reading my own. I keep seeing my companions…the people I was sent to protect go down the same roads that I’ve walked. It will not bring about the destination he wants, but I can’t stop him from finding his own way…I’ve been there. There is no convincing him. Pov tells me he’s going with him which gives me some hope..until he asks me a question. He asks me where we first met Doran. I feel like the next words I speak will lead them down a dark road..regardless of where I send them. I can’t stand the thought of telling them…but letting them wander with no destination and no compass…is worse. Finally…I utter the name of the town. Fole. Pov thanks me and departs.
It takes a moment for the depth of what I’ve said to sink in. I’ve killed them…both of them. I run out of the room…no sing. I get downstairs…nothing. I find myself outside..frantic and forlorn. They are gone…and in my soul I know…I won’t see them again.

The War Underground

Blood Raven

So it is decided. We shall remain here in this time and further our endeavor to rid this world of Doran. His power is more present in this future. The power seen through Pain and Suffering, which I understand has some strong connection to Doran, has reached the general populace of Dracos. The power of faith in the god of slaughter. In order to have a chance of holding our own against this evil, we must find allies. The surface world has fallen into the hands of a single bloodthirsty man. It had crossed our minds to attempt confronting Danden; however, approaching the founder of the mage genocide would have proven too risky with chance of failure and ultimately a waste of valued time.

Our main conclusion has led us to the underdark; Jhulaer’s distasteful homeland. Perhaps allies would be more easily gained there, oddly enough. We agreed to meet at the north gate around noon. Just after the sun rose I went to gather some supplies that would be needed in the caves below. After that I spent some time studying the new spell book I acquired in the past. Though I cannot understand most of its writings, I will continue to teach myself until I feel worthy of testing the magic with my own hands. With that powerful sword gone, perhaps I can learn to implement magic into my swordplay. After all, I am a fast learner. I’d be dead now if I were not.

Noon approached and we gathered at the north gate. Jhulaer met with us and yet another confrontation unfolded between our two spell casters. Balidor seemed to suddenly be struck with a memory of her that just recently changed due to Jhulaer jumping into the past. Jhulaer seems to be having difficulty controlling this new power of hers, though how can I blame her for something that I have little comprehension of? Despite the difficulties we face now as a group, we must stay focused on what is at stake with the world, not on what is at stake with each other. From my understanding, the inability to set petty differences aside was the foundation of why the world stands as it does today.

Jhulaer teleported us to the underdark entrance where we met with an old friend, also seemingly lost through time; Pov. We agreed to travel with him and after some time, becoming swallowed up by the darkness below, we arrived outside the city of Menzoberranzan. A large city entirely underground, buildings constructed of stone and minimal light. Jhulaer told us to wait outside as she was escorted in, hopefully to gain contact with their leaders. After I spent more time studying my spell book, she returned and told us that the rest of her family had been executed and her crimes paid for, which both alleviated and complicated matters. After we had found lodging she told us that a contact with the drow council, Avelyn, might prove useful for getting word to them. During this discussion Avelyn arrived outside of Jhulaer’s room and proposed a deal to our drow companion; if we deal with a group of minotaur responsible for the slaughter of drow, she would consider allowing a message to be sent to the council. We spent some time discussing how we could do this in the most diplomatic way possible and eventually agreed to Avelyn’s offer.

We set off on the roads further underground and came upon a field of bodies, drow and minotaur. A group of the horned beings stood on the other end, carrying away their dead. We quickly attempted to make a final decision, but were easily noticed and taunted over to them. We approached in a nonthreatening manner and succeeded in diplomacy. Their leader, Marak led us back to their city and invited us into his stronghold. There we told him everything of the situation at hand involving Doran, and he surprisingly believed us. Marak revealed that his father, Totem, long ago worked alongside a version of Doran. Marak also presented to us a piece of a periapt. Balidor examined it closely, and concluded that, like the periapt of Pelor he wore, if all three pieces were to be assembled, the wearer of it would eventually withhold the powers of Erythnul. Marak also revealed information about a group of companions his father was involved with, one of which would likely still be alive; the first vampire. We eventually parted ways from the minotaur community and made our way back to Menzoberranzan. The minotaur were easy enough to negotiate with. The drow will likely prove far more difficult. Hopefully, considering their strong inclination to magic, they will not have scried us during this time.

Three and a half years…..no word….no message….no clue left behind. But Three years and six months later exactly I feel a presence I have not felt in a long time. I give Jhulaer a single word, it’s all I can stand to say, Kevatch….the location of the shrine I made those years ago. It’s not long before they arrive. And there they are; Jhulaer, Thorman, and Blood Raven. The three people I used to call my friends, my closest companions. We stand in silence, the wind blowing in the snowy peaks of Torin, amongst the monuments of the dead. Nothing is said, what could I say? My mind is preoccupied….all I can think of….is the past.

Three years, five months ago…

My friends are gone. They have left me. No word. Nothing. All I was able to get from the oracle during the many interrogations was that they had left me willingly. No matter how hard I beat her, how many bones I broke, scars I gave her; she yielded no information other than they had left me of their own free will. I know they will return to find me….it’s only a matter of time before they return from their task. I must remain vigilante and make my place here for the time being. Perhaps there is information to be gained in this prison….perhaps some followers to recruit. We’ll need all the help we can get.

Five months later…

My efforts have been in vain…I was able to gain the trust of the guards and mages alike at the prison, I have been helping them ever since my companions departed. I got comfortable…perhaps too comfortable. I felt well enough to reveal to the guards who I really am. Their reaction, while expected, was not the one I was hoping for. I had to leave…and leave quickly. Luckily enough Ramblin and Aralia had decided to stay with me until such a time my companions had returned. Their Airship provided a quick and convenient escape from the frozen wasteland. But an escape to where? Have i spared them from one fate only to bring them to a far more gruesome one?

We set sail for the only place I can imagine that may have some answers; the ruins of Spellscale.

Six months later…

I am alone. Only a couple months have passed since Ramblin and Aralia parted ways from me. I could ask no more of them. The incident of Spellscale was a reminder that those who become close to me are in danger, it was a bittersweet departure. I had grown fond of them, despite my efforts to distance myself from them. I have long since accepted that my so-called friends have abandoned me….all attempts to scry them have resulted in nothing but darkness this yields only two possibilities; they are either dead or on another plane. I admit that neither concerns me; they have chosen their fates and must suffer the consequences.

King Dandin’s reach has grown. Not many countries remain opposed to his rule save for Torin and Osilyth. Though Torin has taken neutrality in the conflict, it seems inevitable they will be drawn into it to add yet another kingdom under Dandin’s belt in his ‘glorious’ crusade. But for the time being, it is the only safe haven I can think of…perhaps it would be prudent to make my way there.

Present Day

I stand atop a snowy precipice staring into the eyes of someone I used to know. Over three years has it been since I last saw them, since they abandoned me to rot in the festering prison. Two years now I have wandered through wastelands, forests, villages, cities, doing what was necessary to survive, helping those who needed it, defending those who had not the strength to defend themselves, dispensing Justice to those who would cause harm in whatever way I deemed fit.

The road has taken it’s toll on me; I am not the man I once was, I am not the man they remember. Three years, six months to the day since they left, and they dare stand before me and say I should be grateful for their return. That I should be thankful for them leaving me to die in the future so they could save my life in the past. No….they will get no thanks…..no show of gratuity…they deserve no such pittance.

And though it goes against every fiber of my being, despite my anger and hate that boils within me, I will join them again. But not as their friend, they gave that privilege up years ago. No, they are dead to me, their lives mean nothing! They are but a means to an end, mere pawns in a far greater game. They will bring me to Dorin so that I may defeat him for the last time.

Shortly after arriving in Vilistirith, we found ourselves enthralled with the culture shock of a city bursting at the seams with magic. Despite only residing on the surface for the last few years, it was almost unnerving to see such proud and blatant exhibitions by mages. My initial instinct was to run, to warn them that they needed to hide, but this fear was soon replaced by wonder as Blood Raven and myself began to soak in the reality of it. Thormin didn’t even seem to notice as we walked behind his massive bronze friend.

After a brief conversation, Blood Raven and I left Thormin to speak with his friend. After venturing into the city, we found our way to a local shop, and after a quick look around, we made a few purchases.

All the excitement we had experienced so far in this city seems inconsequential now considering what came next. From the street, a Dracos army camp was visible in the distance. Like a flashback, I saw the vision again in my mind, and was reminded that I saw Balidor attacked while standing in a military tent. After making our way to the edge of the camp, I took the form of an elven mage in the Dracos army, in hopes of gaining a little information, and before I knew it, I was face to face with the man who would one day become my good friend, and a man who’s face startled me even more, this being the face of my old friend Alton, but without his cheerful demeanor. This being his ancestor, the king of Dracos. Attempting a bit of honesty, I tried to explain my presence with a warning of an attempt on the life of Balidor, but upon taking issue with my garb, despite my claims of being a bounty hunter, I was soon detained. After removing myself from my bonds and giving the soldiers detaining me the slip, I took to the skies, as it turned out, with just enough time to see the flash of blue light, as my brother burst into existence. Putting on speed, and with a burst of energy, I held him fast with a spell, and managed to stop him from loosing the arrow he had strung. In the next few moments I managed to turn his body, still rigid with my hold person spell, away from any unwary innocents, and proceded to empty his quiver and attempt to slash away at his exposed throat. Despite my best efforts he refused to die. Exasperated, I let forth with a torrent of electrical energy from my dragon breath, which was enough to draw the attention of Thormin and Blood Raven. Snapping free from my spell, and lashing out, Zaknagloth sputtered, and in another radiating blue light just stretching far enough to encapsulate my comrades as the ran to join the fray, we blinked out of time.

We arrived in a place similar to the one we left, but the briefest of glances made it abundantly clear that we were somewhere in the distant future. However, this was not a future that one would be glad to see. Dry, dead land stretched as far as the eye could see, and the heaps of rubble where buildings once stood acted as monuments to the destruction that was clearly wrought here. We didn’t have time to take this in fully however, as our battle with my brother was far from over. Not long after our fight began, another blue light burst into the clearing , delivering yet another version of my brother to the battlefield, dividing our attention. Before the end, this second version left yet again in a flash, as we finished off the original.

The victory was short, however. Noticing movement on top of the heap of rubble, I had only a moment to react after seeing a swarm of Dorins pouring out of the remains of an inn. Grasping my friends, who were already preparing themselves for a fight, I drew from this strange power once more, giving my last ounce of energy to take us back to the time period we left.

Again, we were gone, and gasping on the shore of the lake, blue sky above, I let sleep take me.

I thought this day would go in a very different direction. We arrived at the prison, and with little effort had found our way inside. THe mages seemed to be left in an almost uneasy alliance with their captors, who as it seemed, owed the mages their lives in this desolate frozen wasteland. I found myself surprised. I had never expected the captive mages to be swayed by the kind faces of those who put them in chains. We had only begun to speak to them, when we heard of an Oracle in the prison. Balidor sought contact with her, and after he had finished, the rest of us entered to hear her counsel. With Blood Raven and Thormin, her words were cryptic, leaving nothing but unanswered questions, and mine were left the same. However, something drew me back into that room, something I needed to know.

I returned to her alone, for the sole purpose of gleaning some information about the strange blue light which had followed me since Raz’s death. She seemed, hesitant, but reached out her hand to touch mine, and found herself shocked by what she saw, and by the energy she felt even more however, her face displayed fear. Sweat dripping from her brow, the surprise dropped from her face as she told me that the power I had been given was just as I had suspected, and perhaps feared. Time. The powers of the time traveler Raz seemed to have been passed on to me, as I held him in those last moments.

There was more, and she put a hand to my temple sharing with me the vision she saw. A vision of my brother. My brother watching himself, watching me as I rode in the mage cart all those months ago. It didn’t make sense yet, but the vision continued, dropping my brother violently into different moments in my past, and into moments in the pasts of my companions, until he stopped at a moment some 200 years past, as he watched a young man, yet undeniably Balidor, speaking with a king who had a strong resemblance to a man I once knew. Tightening his bow, and muttering under his breath that this was his chance to hurt me, he let the arrow loose.

The vision ended.

In my mind I couldn’t tell if this was to happen, or if because it happened in the past, it had always happened, but rationalizing what I had seen, I couldn’t bring myself to check on Balidor. My fear was that knowledge of his fate outside this room would trap it’s reality in my mind, and cement the events in place. I called for Blood Raven and Thormin to enter the room, but as they did, I begged them not to speak. I used vague words, but stressed to them the dire nature of what I had just witnessed, and what I had just learned. I needed them. I knew I do it alone, but they needed to make that choice for themselves. Blood Raven answered first, as I thought he might. He has always been a fierce ally, and a trusted friend when few are still standing, but my gaze shifted to Thormin. I could tell he struggled with what I had told him. Even so, with a fierce look in his eyes, he unsheathed his blades and nodded.

I looked to the Oracle for guidance. She instructed that all I needed do, was will it.

As I did as she commanded, I saw the familiar blue light begin to glow brightly around me, growing larger and larger until it encased all three of us, and in a flash, we found ourselves atop a frighteningly tall tower watching a bronze dragon fly into the distance.

And without knowing if we had arrived at the right time or place, all we could do, was hope.

Mages at Last

Blood Raven

We have found it! The mage prison. Finally our hardships after so many days will pay off. The journey from Velistirith to Baradur went far beyond the speed I thought possible. Aurelia, a lone mage herself, can make a dragon-less airship travel several thousand miles in two days. I can only wonder what kind of power an entire group of mages could hold together. At the same time I grow to understand Balidor’s initial thought; mage’s are damned souls. How does one limit such power?
The guards outside the prison were brought provisions by two mages, harnessing fire in the palm of their hand. I assume they are under a control, similar to the ones we saw near Torin. After the mages had left we agreed to have Thorman converse with the two guards and pose as a lone wanderer through the storm. Jhulaer maintained a position from above, finally getting a chance to stretch her wings. Once Throman had approached, one guard was sent back to inform his others. Jhulaer immediately responded by detaining the man with a spell, and Throman, unable to continue the route of negotiation, knocked out the other man with ease.
After another short struggle with one of the guards, we eventually attempted to simply knock on the door for admittance, avoiding any more sign of hostility. Jhulaer began to communicate via arcane messages through the door with another mage. An agreement was made and we met the commander of the fortress, a man by the name of George. We stated our intentions and found that they desired no bloodshed. He let us in after each side gave word to remain at ease. In the main room we saw around twenty, maybe thirty mages. Commander George stated that any mage wanting to leave with us was free to go. One of the mages, Calestra, spoke up indicating that they were supposedly well-kept here. The mages and guards seemed to develop a cohesive method of living. Out in the dead cold of Elaris they had to help each other survive. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Dracos soldiers and mages living together? Had we come all this way for nothing? Even after reasoning with George and asking him to leave with us as well, he refused to let go of his faith in Dracos, despite the trouble it has caused him. I respected him for this, and at the same time saw him a fool.
My friends and I discussed the situation, finally deciding to extend our offer to any mage willing to leave with us. We can’t free those who do not want to be free. Balidor desired to speak with an oracle mentioned by Calestra; alone. After Balidor had finished his conversation us three went in to speak with her. This oracle… I couldn’t stand her. The all-knowing insight she possessed. Claiming she felt uncertainty within us. A woman of lies. She was poisoning the thoughts of my friends. I know what I see to be true, not what another tells me I should know.
Finally Thorman and I left her presence. Jhulaer remained. I asked Balidor if he had learned anything about his power, but he said it only posed more questions. Upon being surrounded by magic users and my disgust with the oracle, I asked Balidor about learned magic. While in the army I was told one of the first things to be destroyed was books on magic. Balidor answered that there was a time when wizards would learn magic from text, but at the expense of several years in training. Time is simply something we do not have. After several minutes we were called to the oracle again. Jhulaer told us we were not to speak, but simply nod if we agreed to her explanation. She said the oracle had shown her brother, Zackngloth, in the past. He was going to kill someone currently living, thus altering the result of time. Despite my dislike for the oracle, I trusted Jhulaer’s judgment and nodded in agreement. Thorman hesitated, but eventually agreed as well. She told us to hold onto her and ready ourselves to deflect an arrow. A blue light emanated from her and we burst into a new location. She suddenly gasped for breath as if the wind had been knocked out of her; an echo of Roz. I looked. We are atop a massive tower. I broken lantern lies on the ground next to us. In the distance a bronze dragon flies away into the horizon. I haven’t the slightest clue of when we are.

Thormin and I begin our walk back to camp after meeting with the thief, Thomas, without saying a word. There’s not much that needs to be said, but I’m deep in thought as it is, and my full attention is on the items. With a short amount of study, I can tell that the ring bearing the sigil of the king harbors no magical aura, but the amulet bearing the abhorrent symbol is another story entirely. It’s aura is threefold, containing conjuration, enchantment and transmutation magic, but what it does I cannot tell. After arriving at camp I inform the group of the items, and my intention to understand the effect of the amulet by putting it on.

Before the others can protest, I slip it around my neck. I’m tired of wasting time. If we wanted to understand what it did, someone would have to wear it, and I’m the best equipped to handle the magic if something is amiss.

The amulet is not what I expect. A growing pressure mounts upon my chest, as though a weight has been placed upon me, dragging me down as I struggle to stay in control. I begin to sweat, as speaking and answering the inquiries of Balador and the others becomes increasingly difficult. Strange thoughts begin to creep into my head articulating fears. Fears I have had, fears I didn’t know I had, and fears that were never fears before all brought to light in the wake of the twisted power of this artifact. Suddenly, I’m unconscious as Balador grabs the amulet from my neck.

When I awake, the amulet is away from me, hanging from a tree branch, and I begin the process of scrying for the king, first with the ring, which paints a strange picture of an event some time ago, (for what reason this happens, I am not sure) in which the king is murdered, and a shapeshifter takes his place. I relay this information to the others, and follow by scrying with the amulet. The scry reveals a dark room, difficult to see in, but as my eyes adjust I notice a figure in the corner which slowly moves close to me, until I can see in the dim beam of light, that the figure is Dorin, or at least one of the many aspects of him. He sees me, somehow. Through the scry and with his blind white eyes he sees me and begins to reach out his bony gnarled hand. Before he can “touch” me, I sever the connection, resolved to destroy the amulet.

The following moments are somewhat of a blur now, but I know that despite my best attempts with a disintegrate spell, the power of the amulet reflects my spell back upon me, leaving me at death’s door. If not for the quick action of Balador, I would have certainly died. Thormin buried the amulet to at least be rid of it, and after an attempt at scrying for Wesley Polluck, who appears to be asleep, I do the same.

We awake before dawn and begin the trek around the city walls to the skyport where we will meet with our ride. We pass a group beating a boy, and after scaring them off we learn that the boy’s name is Balador, despite this, the boy does not seem interested in our help.

As we continue our walk, I stop short. With a snap I feel the intense pressure upon my chest again as though the amulet were still there. It lessens and I’m able to carry on, still unnerved by the continued effects. Before reaching the ship, Thormin reveals to me that the night before, as we walked from the city, he noticed a blue light hovering around me. I explained the first time I saw the light, on the night of Roz’s death, but that I haven’t been able to determine the significance of the light.

We arrive at the ship and are greeted by our captain, who expresses his desire to leave the city as quickly as possible. After some sleep on the ship, we decide to explain everything about our plans and our enemies to our traveling companions, at which point it is revealed to us that my suspicions were correct, and that Arellia is in fact a mage, and that she’s even powering and controlling the ship with her magic.

Within a day we arrive in Baradur, and begin our trek into the snow and cold. It’s not long before we come across an encampment of Dracos soldiers, and I know that the heat of battle may soon warm us.

The pain. The screaming. Dorin. These are all I am able to see in my slumber. Haven’t I suffered enough at his hands? Can I not get a reprieve from his torture even in my dreams?

After some brief morning contemplation, by wounds begin to ooze. I am able to…successfully heal them with the powers I was once able to command, I don’t alert any of my companions…no need for them to fret further.

Bloodraven and Thorman spar for awhile before the latter and Jhulaer head into town to speak with their contact Tomas.

Whilst we wait for their return, Blood Raven starts questioning me about my stance on mages. A question no one has ever bothered to ask me. I did not hold my tongue, and answered honestly: mages are damned souls to me, always have been. Not a popular belief compared to my companions, and given my company. But that is my nature. However, the methods in which the churches and government took when they laid sanctions on the mages were wrong and immoral.

A thought hits me during the discussion. I let Blood Raven know that no matter what happens to not do anything. I attempt a feat I have only read about in ancient tomes and holy texts, I attempt to commune with my patron deity, whomever it may be. What I find is…unexpected; a simple, dusty chapel with one door at the end. I cautiously walk through it into blinding light, and nearly an identical chapel. Save for the fact that it is completely clean and a throne sits at one end. An investigation reveals nothing but disappointment. No God reveals themselves to me…perhaps this is a sign, I must forge my own path, decide my own destiny, do with my powers what I will no matter what omnipotent presence gave them to me.

I return to the material world with nothing. But a single voice echoes within my mind with a single verse “The Blood has awakened him.”

Balidor lives. Against all odds, my friend breathes again. I know I shouldn’t be surprised as we were both resurrected to be here in the first place, but the overwhelming sense of relief drowns anything else out. I care so much about this man, this group… I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten the warmth of compassion—the all-enveloping blanket of emotion when a friend … dies. So many… so many of my friends, my companions, have died. This all comes swimming to the surface of my mind but all I can focus on is… Balidor lives.

It’s all that matters right now.

He questions how… why… questions I understand but don’t need answers for. He’s still here, that is what matters and I tell him that. Blood Raven excuses himself, I think to fetch some water… my mind is foggy… thick with relief and happiness. Then, through the haze… Hubert. That elf, the one they call Pain, named for the very blade I used to carry on my left hip. It was Hubert. I saw him only for a second but it was enough. I heard him. That demeanor was all too familiar. You can copy someone’s appearance easily enough… but their mind?

A scream from downstairs. I look to Balidor and Jhulaer and bolt down the stairs to the bar. I turn the corner and see a man smash a chair over Blood Raven’s back. Blood Raven yells something to the man unheard by me. I charge. The man is knocked flat..out of breath. I over did it. He’s just a villager… nonetheless I knock him unconscious. As I go to check on Blood Raven, I see a disturbing sight. An elf… the bartender lies bleeding on the floor. A small incision peers out from behind the blood… small but deep. “It was Pain!” Blood Raven says. I see the blood on his rapier… damnit! I know this sickness too well. But there is a chance to save him, the bartender. I take the man in my arms and start upstairs; there’s only one man who can save him now.

Jhulaer stands at the stairs. She offers to stand watch and alert us if someone comes. Blood Raven follows me but seems to fall behind. No matter. I get the man to Balidor and explain it’s Blood Raven’s handiwork. Balidor is not pleased, but does what he can. He bathes the man in radiant light, a similar relief fills me but doesn’t last. The light fades and the man lies motionless. I check his pulse. Dead. We are unsure as to what went wrong. I leave Balidor bewildered to see what’s keeping Blood Raven.

Blood Raven is on his knees in the hall mumbling something. No time for this. I pick him up and tell him to keep himself together. Juhlaer orders us to get inside the room. I listen. I don’t know what to expect next but I need to know if Blood Raven might be infected… might have been poisoned by Dorin. I ask.

He has no answers.

Balidor is more direct with his questioning. He pins Blood Raven against the far wall and tells him of his mistakes. First Balidor and now this man; when will it end? Jhulaer appears and exclaims, “We need to go!” I offer up the memory of the lake outside the southern gate, and we vanish.

By the lake Jhulaer tells us that the elves had found us, that they seem to be able to locate us at will. Both Balidor and I are unsure as to why we flee from something as simple as an elf. Jhulaer answers with a shaky, frightened assurance. “You cannot fight them.” When we ask her why, she shows me.

Jhulaer’s memory flows into me and I find myself in a clearing watching as these two elves, Pain and Suffering, taunt and play with a young catfolk… telling him he has to choose who will die. Pain is manic, jovial even, as Hubert was in the beginning. Suffering is stoic and silent; the Hubert that lost his memory. The catfolk makes his choice and Pain raises a hand to reveal a glowing gem in his palm… again, Heubert. The large cat that the young one was guarding vanishes… but to me… it’s almost slowed down. I see her being eaten away… piece by piece… something far too recognizable for me. This power…whatever these elves wield it acts just like the Storm.

I return to the lake from within myself unsure of what to think. So many questions: who are they… how do they have this power… is there any fighting them… should we?

Two guards approach from the city, one young, one old. The elder seems confident, hand on hilt, and informs us that the younger saw us “appear” as if out of nowhere. I try to come up with a reason for our appearance but my mind is muddled, cluttered… the state of Terra infuriates me. We have enough to consider and accomplish without having to hide. The general seems certain of us… and not just Jhulaer. He knows of all of us it seems… even me.

He introduces himself as Wesley Pollick, General of the Velisirith army. Jhulaer begins to converse with him; despite what she is she seems to have a knack for getting through to people. He speaks of the state of Terra and the goings on of this city… but I hear little… too much has just happened, too little remains unanswered. And Dorin lives. Somewhere he lives.

I catch talk of the royal family that started the mage genocide, one called the Dandins. I hear of a high priest that burned down his church here in Velistirith. A glance to Balidor reveals little. Finally, I hear that Count Verimont, who we had attempted to meet in Starspire and who Blood Raven had had conference with, is dead. Blood Raven seems surprised as we all do. He reveals that he stabbed his own father in an attempt to make him see reason… at least, that is how he put it… this does not bode well. I fully believed Blood Raven’s acts of violence to be not of his own free will, but now… I question the man’s very nature. I trusted him. I make for the lake in an attempt to wash the blood from my hands… to wash away the last several hours.

Wesley returns to the city, and Blood Raven asks to be alone. He makes for the distant forest. Jhulaer and I discuss our plans… a silent Balidor sits motionless. I wonder if he wrestles with the same turmoil as I, if he wishes he’d stayed dead… with her. Jhulaer and I agree Blood Raven shouldn’t be alone, and make for the forest as well. Jhulaer suddenly sprouts wings and ascends far beyond my reach…beautiful… it’s pleasant to see something so free… so against what this world has become. As I walk I glance back to Balidor. He remains seated..unmoving. I can’t bring myself to interrupt his thoughts so I walk.

I see the flicker of fire from the tree line as I get closer. I only walk a small ways into the trees until I see him… Blood Raven… but he’s different. He holds the singed remains of his outfit in his arms…and weeps.

Again… Hubert.

I’ve seen someone try to remove a piece of who they are and it never turns out how they hoped. He needs this armor… it’s his strength… but I feel he may be too reliant on it. He has his own strength after all. I tell him this but I don’t know if it helps. Jhulaer stands by as Blood Raven dons his armor, and I see him in all his imperfection. We are all scarred, all broken… and it’s what makes us strong.

Meanwhile, while Balidor sits and contemplates the implications of all that has happened, a little girl approaches from the city. “Are you ok?” She asks. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Balidor replies. The girl gives him the doll she was holding and explains it is one of four. She says while for now it will protect you, it will return to me and the other three. Together, they are strong. Balidor accepts the doll with quiet humility, and makes to join his friends in the forest.

As I make it to the treeline, I gaze out at the distant city of Velistirith. Balidor is making his way back to us… to me… Jhulaer… Blood Raven. We all stand together, and everything seems a little clearer in the light of this new day.

A Familiar Fear

Blood Raven

I am a criminal. I am wanted for the betrayal of my country. In the process of saving magic users from extinction, I have tainted the title of Blood Raven. But while conversing with my father I discovered something; I do not care how others perceive me, so long as I know what I do is right. Though I follow through with my father’s wishes, I have every intention of continuing to free mages. Some things must hold their importance above that of family. Let it be written in history, that Blood Raven was the one who had to betray his country, his people, his family, purely out of love for them.

We are in Velistirith. I’m dragging my companions along on this task set upon me, and I can’t help but feel I am endangering them; again. It will not be an easy task finding out the truth of King Gregor’s disappearance, especially when we are known enemies of Dracos. At Thorman’s suggestion we headed for a tavern in hopes of sitting in on some talk of the city, anything to find out more of Velistirith’s royalty. Thorman split from us heading south of town attending to a personal matter. Jhulaer and Balidor joined me at the Dwarf’s Belly to gather information. I attempted visiting with the barkeep asking about the castle and the king, but received little information of value.

Jhulaer notified me of a Halfling at a table eavesdropping on us. We decided to have a short chat while at some time during this Balidor left us. We later found out that the name of this Halfling was Thomas, a criminal or sorts. He offered Jhulaer and I a smoke of a substance I was not familiar with which made me feel quite unfocused, slowing my vision and reaction. After realizing his confidence in the skill of larceny, Jhulaer and I agreed to hire him for the purpose of obtaining one of the King Gregor’s belongings. After this is done, hopefully Jhulaer will be able to better scry for the missing king. We paid Thomas 6,500 gold to complete this task for us and he left without a handshake of agreement. We are to meet him in two nights at the front of the coliseum. Hopefully he keeps his word.

After our visit with Thomas, Jhulaer and I went in search for Thorman heading to the city’s south. During this we noticed how little the guards are on patrol compared to when we were last here. If there were truly a missing king, would not the guard be searching every home and corner of the city for him? Before coming across Thorman I saw a monument in honor of a Dracos soldier titled The Widow Maker. Despite all of the men he killed to have that title placed upon him, he was still a hero in the eyes of Dracos. Despite all of the men I’ve killed to save mages, I will never be honored in such a way.

Once we had united with Thorman we decided to wait for Balidor back at the Dwarf’s Belly and purchase lodging for the night. We waited for some time when a raven cawed from outside. The caw rang in my ear with a cold fear down my back in remembrance of my nightmare with Pain and Suffering. I darted outside and observed the bird perched atop the tavern. Its wings snapped back unnaturally and a familiar darkness seemed to overtake it, a darkness I had once seen in Thorman.
The creature then took off deeper into the city.

Without time to think, I chased after the raven as fast as I could. I jumped my way atop a building and was able to see it heading to the town square before losing sight. The three of us ran there the quickest we could in search for the bird, but there was no sign of it. We eventually came to the conclusion that Balidor may have paid a visit to his former church, but upon arriving there we saw the little of what remained.

We then broke our way into a nearby abandoned church with a statue of a reaper at the hall’s end; a god I’ve heard little of. I found a secluded room for Jhulaer to cast her scry spell in while Throman and I kept watch. After an hour she came out of the room in a rush of concern informing us she could see nothing of Balidor, but heard his screams. Without any other options before us, we began searching the immediate area of abandoned churches, bursting down any doors we could. Eventually I happened to come across one with a raven perched upon it. Not the same raven, from what I could tell, but when stepping inside… something was immediately wrong with the place. The darkness almost seemed to seep in my blood, channeling a familiar fear… but of what?

I made my way to the upper level hallway using the dim light of my sword to find a lone door at the end. It was locked so I tried breaking through to no avail and decided to find my companion more capable of such tasks. When Thorman and Jhulaer had joined me we broke our way into the room to find… ravens… Hundreds, thousands of them. Ravens. All dead, their jaws snapped in half. The sight froze me.

“I’m going to watch you die now.” The voice of Pain seeping into my ears through horrid recollection.

And then a scream, and a shove as Thorman trudged past me. I snapped from my trance and moved to catch up with him. The three of us began searching the lower level for any hidden entrance. It was then that Jhulaer and I heard two familiar voices, that of Pain and Suffering, from upstairs in the room with the ravens. Without hesitation, Jhulaer moved to get us out through a transportation spell but Thorman told us to wait. He was transfixed by the voices despite the danger. Jhulaer coudln’t wait any longer, and in a blink we stood outside the building. Thorman began to run for the entrance and I ran after telling him that the elves in there are not the friend he once knew. I also realized that we had yet to find Balidor.

With only one logical place left to be checked, I told Jhulaer to dimension door us to the cellar of the building. I knew the risks of a failed transport spell, but I had full faith that Balidor was somewhere below. In an instant we were brought below.

What I saw before me was of the most unnatural experiments I had ever seen conducted upon a person. Balidor was in a crucified stature with three tubes fed into him; his arms and neck. In the corner opposite of him sat an old man with abnormal eyes. Seeing Thorman’s reaction, I immediately assumed that we were in the presence of Dorin.

There was no time to lose. Jhulaer and I rushed to remove the tubes from Balidor. Upon doing so, blood rushed out of his neck and arms in a speed I had never seen. I instantly cupped my hands over his neck to hold in the bleeding, but had I pressed any harder I would have began to choke him.

Once we had done our best to free him, Thorman came over to assist carrying Balidor as Jhulaer prepared a teleport spell. But Thorman had left Dorin alive, and as Jhulaer was nearly ready the old man leapt onto her back and bit down on her neck. I drew my rapier as quick as lightning and stabbed the demon through the head. Jhulaer cast the spell and we were instantly teleported to the Dwarf’s Belly.

We rushed into one of our rooms and laid Balidor on the bed, watching the life slowly drain from him. We did everything we could to suppress the bleeding. Thorman grasped his friend’s hand tightly. I watched as the two friends, who had known each other for so long, paid their farewells. I said something to him, I can’t remember what. Anything to help his passing and assure he would not die in vain.

Once his last breath had been taken, I slumped against a wall and began to count; Alton, Reginald, Iorni, Vosh, and now Balidor. Five. Five too many. Maybe the gods truly are g—wait!

A flash of light.

I stood up in amazement as I witnessed bright light surging through Balidor’s body. He breathed heavily and stirred in the bed while his wounds began to heal.

“I told you some of us handle death better than others,” spoke Jhulaer.

I awoke after what felt like days, from the sleep that the still throbbing remainder of my leg demanded.

I am slow. Every move I make must be methodical and precise else I find myself on the floor again. Always having been light on my feet the loss of control unnerves me. Despite it, I pull myself up with the staff of my dead comrade, soaking the reminder. Entering the hallway of the airship it takes me little time to realize that we have landed. Noticing the door at the end of the hall is still open, I check on the remains of the copy of my “brother”. The corpse is still lying there, now beginning to stiffen. I raise the body off the ground with a telekinesis spell, and begin my slow trudge to the deck, the oddity of the copy in tow. Noticing again the burn marks on the body, the telltale marks remind me of my own sparking tendencies, and wonder if there is some connection to his appearance, and our old friend Raz. Reaching the deck I see two men. One standing on deck, covered in scars, and another near the trees, practicing some physical forms, neither are immediately recognizable, until the man on the deck turns, and despite the extreme changes in appearance, there is no doubt. Thorman has returned. Tossing the body off the ship and into the trees, Thorman and I speak of the past several days. Despite my fears of him in the past, which still linger in my mind, it is relieving to see a friendly face after losing so many.

The other man shortly joins us on the ship and after revealing that his name is Connick, he begins explaining to us that he is from another plane, and his task here is to sever all contact between his plane and this one. I don’t trust this man, and his choice in words often leave me feeling that he has much that he is not telling us, but as the conversation concludes, it becomes clear that we have no choice but to work with him in hopes of both benefiting from a temporary partnership.

We decide that we shall continue to Starspire, as Blood Raven had suggested, by way of teleportation, and upon arriving at the site of Blood Raven’s mother’s grave, we part ways with Connick, and head into town. After stopping into a strange bar, named “The Cock’s Nest” we quickly feel ill at ease with the odd bartender who appears to freshly be missing a thumb, and the many dark shadows, and before long, we find ourselves trapped by city guards who wish to take Blood Raven to his father. Surrendering, we find that it was likely for the best that we did not resist, considering the full company outside with archers on roofs at the ready. After arriving, Blood Raven enters a room to speak with his father privately, and upon his return to us, he urges that we must leave quickly, so we depart. We teleport to Velistirith, to the part of the city where the warforged aided us, and we begin to gather supplies and clothing in a business district. I seek out a construct leg, but have no luck in finding such craftsmanship in the city that houses the Dracos army, and this is not surprising. However, I notice an elf with a gun strapped to his waist, and upon inquiring, he reveals that he and his wife (Ramblin and Aralia) are in the business of transportation, and as the conversation continues I begin to believe that either he or his wife may be a mage. I am wary of a trap, but the potential of another magical ally and the opportunity of travel they provide leads me to set up a meeting with them and the rest of the group.

After finding a peg leg, and dealing with the odd woman who sold it, and her sick husband, “something was said of smelling like dead pigs, yet I didn’t understand”, we discuss with Blood Raven the information his father gave. We have gained the location of another mage prison, and have been offered the location of another, provided we look into the strange goings on of the king, we decide as a group that we will take a day to attempt to find out what Blood Raven’s father wishes to know, and then will depart with Ramblin for the city of Elaris in Baradur, to free the mages trapped there.

Hope Reborn

Thorman

Pain. Throughout my existence I have become quite accustomed to pain…but none like this. My very being is being torn apart..every piece of what I am stripped from reality..and yet this is not what hurts most. I remember. I remember everything. My name..is Thorman. Locked away behind a guise of blissful unawareness, an assured sense of purpose for centuries..and fate chooses now to remind me who I am. I remember who I am saving..and why..and I ache for this is all I can do for them. Within moments this all passes through my mind and vanishes, along with me, just as quickly.

Light..breath..things a dead man shouldn’t feel. Feel..I can feel. I am whole again..somehow. I open my eyes. I expect a hell…a prison, some punishment for all that I now remember I’ve done. I’m in a forest..and standing before me..a familiar face.

Balidor.

It all comes rushing back in a second and I can do nothing but embrace an old friend. As I hold this man I still don’t know if he’s real..if I’m real..and I don’t care. Knowing no one..having no one and no where to call home for hundreds of years…it all suddenly pains me to think about, and I can’t express how relieved I am to find myself here. We take a step back and I notice Balidor seems to be in just as much disbelief as I am. Neither of us know why we are, but after a moment I find where we are. Dracos, where it all started.

We both have little to no possessions, short of my blades which remain strangely by my side, so we make for Velistirith. On our way we come across a small village. A woman pulling a cart informs us it is called Porrell. She is lovely and it feels wonderful to find myself somewhere so peaceful. We help her with a few chores and in exchange she feeds Balidor and I. She offers us money, but we know better and make our way east towards a city called Ocarthel, which she informs us is the closest large city.

Balidor is contacted by Jhulaer..a drow..a sorceress yes..I remember. She was part of the party from my last days as a man..the last pieces of anything I could call a family. I won’t fail them again. Balidor informs me that they are aboard an airship and are currently scouting for our location. I savor the travel..calming, but soon enough we spot an airship. I successfully ignite Faith and do my best to signal them. Just as we think they’ve missed us they turn to land.

As we approach the ship pulled by a great blue dragon, a masked man jumps overboard. He and Balidor greet each other warmly..Blood Raven! I smile as more names and memories come flooding back..but that smile fades as I learn the party on the ship is but the two of them. So much death and from what I am told it’s all very recent.

Balidor accounts his tale of facing Doran at Spellscale Asylum, and his demise. I am ashamed I wasn’t by his side, but he goes on to explain of his last sacrifice that saved Blood Raven. Three men rescued from the brink of death..one by the other..I smile again. We all do our best to explain our resurrections, and Balidor excuses himself to find some more fitting attire.

Blood Raven makes for the dragon so I follow. He briefly explains the pact he made with the beast, and the freedom he must grant him in exchange for his help. I understand and I help Blood Raven free the dragon. As it lumbers away into the forest, we board the ship and Blood Raven shows us to Jhulaer. She is fast asleep and for good reason it seems. We are shown the remnants of her leg..sadly I know this will not be the last pain any of us will suffer. We decide to rest and speak with her in the morning. Blood Raven and Balidor sleep below deck while I rest where I can see the stars.

Blood Raven wakes to a rapping on his window. He opens it. A raven flies in, cawing. He reaches for it and it pecks his finger, breaking the skin. “I’m going to watch you die.” the raven states. Blood Raven sees the figure known as Pain floating in the window. He flees and makes his way to Jhulaer’s room. She won’t wake so he flees topside, but as he opens the final door he doesn’t find himself on the ship. He stands on a hill facing an old decrepit house. He enters the dwelling to find Pain waiting for him at the end of the hall. Pain raises a hand which glows red. Blood Raven dodges into a side room, but when he comes out of his tumble he is facing another figure, one known as Suffering. Suffering looks at Blood Raven and states “Goodbye” and everything fades.

“NOOOOOOO!” I wake suddenly, shaken by what I heard..Balidor! I rush below deck to find him on his knees over the unmoving body of Blood Raven. We try our best to revive him but neither succeeds. Just as we lose hope, he violently comes back to us, with a thrust of his blade. He impales Balidor through the stomach and I am unsure who looks more surprised. I force them apart and do my best to tend to Balidor’s wound. I watch Blood Raven as I do, but the shock on his face reminds me of something..of dreams and nightmares I once had long ago..and I wonder what his was about.

As things settle and I cauterize the wound, a burst of flame outside grabs our attention. Footsteps, quick and purposeful are heard topside. I stand before Balidor and ready myself for the worst. A man bursts through the door wielding fire in each hand. His arms are wrapped..like mine..but not just his arms. He bears them all over his body, and he tears one away to reveal a rune. It glows as he casts a spell..which seals Balidor’s wound. He introduces himself as Connick, a being from another plane who claims the turmoil in ours is affecting his own. He means to end travel from our plain to his, all I know is I’d rather have a powerful magic user as a friend at the moment. I tell him to wait until morning and he can speak with our own resident sorceress. He agrees and returns outside. Putting too much trust in a man who just unintentionally almost killed a man, I tell Blood Raven to remain with Balidor who has passed out on the floor. I follow Connick topside until he settles in the tree-line off the ship. I watch him. I shouldn’t..but I trust something in him. We’ll see where the morning takes us.

Meanwhile, in the city of Starspire, a man is handed a paper bearing a likeness of Blood Raven. The man, Count Verimont, is warned by the messenger that his son has been been seen nearby. Verimont seems unmoved and assures the messenger his son shall be found and captured.

A New Sun Rises.

Zaknegloth De-Ath

The night grows cold, the events I have experienced in the last few hours only extenuate the chill that penetrates to my very bones….

A few hours I bore witness to powers only the Gods themselves should possess, yet these were no Gods I knew of. I promptly returned to the ship afterwards to shake off the uneasy feeling in my stomach…but it only got worse. A flash of blue light caught my attention on board…of course I went to investigate. But nothing could have prepared me for what I would encounter…myself. It was me, but scarred, burned….dying. He handed me a note with but two simple words on it “KILLHER”. Anxiety overtook me…I feeling I have never felt. I was barely able to stand, let alone get myself up to the deck.

After I was able to collect myself the others arrived from the forest, they had been paying their respects to the dead…again. I informed Jhulaer of the incident..leaving out the sensitive details. That Cat…Vash I think his name was…asked for a couple of daggers for “protection”. It didn’t take long to find out what his true intentions were. Found him face down in a pool of his own blood in the middle of the forest…his troubles are over….mine we’re about to begin….

There’s an old Drow saying “All trust is foolish. Only put trust in one’s self.” from the moment I was handed that note from my future self, I knew what had to be done. As soon as I was able to get her alone I acted, after revealing to her the truth behind the night she fled from Menzoberranzan I drew my bow on her. I only managed to get a few shots off before she used her Mage trickery. Had I more time I would have easily found her location and finished her off…however, the roar of the dragon attracted the attention of her traveling companion. There was no need for him to die this night as well….but I’m not stupid, 2 versus 1 are not favorable odds even with my extensive years of training. No….I will seek out reinforcements…I may have potential allies back on that island.

Balidor

Darkness…and then…blinding light. I’m standing in the ruins of Spellscale. A man stands in front of me, he says “You’re not Pelor” and I can’t agree with him more. It’s all to quick that a familiar enemy makes his appearance….I run….I run as fast and far as I can and don’t look back as long as I can help it.

I’m transported to a forest…I have no idea where…or even when I am. How much time has passed since I…died. Juhlaer..and old traveling companion contacts me. I tell her I’m heading east and start trudging. Something has changed….I’m not who I once was. My armor is heavy, I feel…weak? No, not weak…I feel…human. I feel like I did nearly 200 years ago. I feel normal again, young even….I am reborn. I have been brought back…but for what purpose or why I do not know…I wonder if…there’s a bright light. I see it, it’s nothing, it’s the storm! A figure appears. Thorman?

The Night is Darkest Just Before the Dawn

Three of my companions are dead, and we fly away from the dreadful sight of their graves. We will never get to bury them, Reginald and Irony’s bodies will most likely be burned like the millions of other magic users before them. Alton’s body will be scavenged upon by sea dwellers, a distasteful resting place for a king. Upon our leave I notice Tetronys’s petrified body missing, likely released from the spell after Locklear’s anti-magic arrow had entered Jhulaer’s now amputated leg. After our losses, I can barely contain myself when trying to direct our way to safety. We head for my hometown of Starspire in hope of discovering the locations of other mage prisons.

Just when I think I have time to grieve for my friends, I spot a black dragon heading our way. I command Edgar to turn the ship around after Jhulaer and Vash take to the skies to face off our potential enemy. In the distance I see the dragon come to a slow and Jhulaer begins to converse with its hooded rider in a language I am unfamiliar with. She eventually tells me that the man riding the black dragon is her brother, who she holds little trust for. I tell her that so long as he is on our ship I will not sheathe my blade. I introduce myself to Zaknagloth and closely watch he and Jhulaer converse in an argument that I cannot understand.

Eventually Jhulaer tells me that she and her brother have settled on their confrontation and he will be of our assistance. I take over the helm for Edgar and begin flying our ship further to land, which we reach after a few hours. I thought I could hear some light sobbing below deck, and couldn’t help but let a few of my own tears dampen my mask.

I land us close to a wooded area and take time to look for food and possibly a staff for Jhulaer. Though we cannot waste time, we must pay our respects for our friends in order to truly say goodbye. While I search through the woods I come across Edgar chopping at a tree with his axe. He tells me that he wants to leave graves for our fallen and I assist him. We make three crosses on which I engrave Reginald, Alton, and Iorni’s names. Edgar tells me he no longer has a place with us and feels that we are a cursed group where death is inevitable among friends. He has lost his hope in us, and has decided to turn to his faith in Erythnul. Edgar walks away through the woods on a new path, taking a similar road that Balidor took. A road I couldn’t risk. He had requested of me that I light the three crosses aflame at night. I head back to the ship and begin helping on the ships repairs and inform the others of Edgar’s leave and request.

At night we venture back into the woods and pay our respects. I pour oil over the crosses and Jhulaer lights them after we have spoken our words of wisdom. Jhulaer then took and iron piece and began to cauterize her own wound with the fire of our friends. We begin to take leave when a voice from behind greets us eerily. What I see is an elf with a mechanical device covering his eyes. Opposite of this elf appears another who has gems in each of his hands, referred to as Pain. Pain states that they have come because they were told we were planning on stopping them, despite the fact we have never seen or heard of them before. He wants to play a game and freezes all of us except for Vash in our places. He gives Vash the choice to kill Zaknagloth or Magria. If Vash should refuse, he threatens to kill both Zaknagloth and Magria.

With every bit of myself, I struggle to break free and stab the eyes of Suffering, but I am helpless to await Vash’s decision. I watch as Vash plainly states, “I want to kill Magria.” Pain holds his hand up toward the giant transparent cat, and it vanishes into thin air, as he demonstrated on Alton’s cross. Without much else said, the two elves vanish and we are released. Vash immediately begins a ritual to bring Magria back to him, but to no end. Jhulaer and I exchange looks of helplessness, not knowing how to ease Vash’s loss.

Fear Will Find You Again

The morning sun rises as Blood Raven attempts to turn the airship around, Jhulaer’s screams of pain echoing in the air. Alton is dead. Jhulaer is losing a leg. Magria is subdued. Magic isn’t working. This is chaos.

Jhulaer wakes almost immediately from the unconsciousness meant to dull the pain of amputation. Her entire world is still, save for some blue orbs floating in the air. A few drift toward her, then suddenly enter her body and she is met with an overwhelming sense of power. She knows if she could do anything to get Alton back, she would. As she thinks this, some orbs move toward Alton, and his death rewinds before her eyes.

“Jhulaer, I’m sorry I can’t be there,” Alton says, knowing the drow is struggling to concentrate this power, the only thing keeping time from moving forward again.

This proves too much for her to hold, however, and Jhulaer is forced to watch as the arrow again forces itself through Alton’s head, exactly as before, tearing through his right eye, splashing her with his blood. The pain of his death echoes in her screams as she awakens for real, the pain of reliving Alton’s death entwining with the pain from Edgar cutting through her leg.

Faith

A male drow has been stalking his prey a long time. He had nearly reached his sister, imprisoned by mercenaries, but he was unexpectedly beaten to the punch by another group, who she now traveled with. From that time, he had relentlessly pursued them, until they suddenly vanished while on the continent of Osylith. Zaknegloth had lost her.

He scoured all of Terra for a lead, with scant success. Only once had he gotten any results. While questioning some individuals in the lower districts of Velistirith, a mention of the name “Jhulaer” set one man off. That man was Alton Emman.

Alton had knocked Zaknagloth unconscious and tied him up in the cellar of an abandoned building. He tried to interrogate the drow, but was unable to learn a thing. Eventually, he gave up and released his prisoner and they went their separate ways.

Zaknagloth continued his hunt, but was only able to learn of a mage prison situated on an island. With nothing else to go on, he decides to venture there.

Blood Raven turns the airship around, facing off against Locklear. The mage hunter calls for a pair of Dragoons, who proceed to attack.

The Dragoons board the ship and a fierce battle ensues. To get rid of the anti-magic arrows, Reginald grabs Alton’s body and flies it toward the shore. Edgar finishes cutting off Jhulaer’s leg and gives it to Iorni, who throws it off the ship. With magic restored, Magria protects Vash and knocks a Dragoon off the airship, as Blood Raven finishes off the second. Iorni drowns the overboard warrior with a water elemental.

Meanwhile, Locklear fires arrows into the ship, breaking the rudder, and threatening to drop airship from the sky. Reginald drops Alton’s body off on the shore underneath the cliff, then flies back up to distract Locklear, and hopefully buy his allies some time, but the mage hunter sees him coming and strikes a vital point, dropping him dead. Iorni, in an attempt to save the angelic warrior, flies toward Locklear himself, only to be struck as well. He falls, unconsious and dying. Vash and Magria attempt a confrontation as well, but the villain’s anti-magic arrows drive the eidolon back, and they are forced to turn back, to not meet the same fate as their allies.

By Alton’s body, Zaknagloth has been observing the strife. The presence of satyr and angel gives him reason to believe that Jhulaer must be on that airship. At the moment though, there is no way to get on-board. He levitates up to the cliff, but after a brief confrontation with the arrogant archer above, he decides to return below to the body.

He searches the body of the man who once interrogated him, then peeks back up the cliff to find that the archer and the bodies are gone. He attempts to track them, but finds only a few other dragons and airships. He manages to free a black dragon, asking that it in exchange help him reach the airship he believes his sister to have been on.

The airship, meanwhile, seems awfully empty, three members down. Blood Raven decides to head to Starspire where they can figure things out, when they notice a black dragon coming in close. The party prepares for battle.

In Osylith, elves Pain and Suffering leap out of a freshly emptied lair of Dragoons. Suffering, a sharp figure with familiar-looking goggles on his eyes, mentions that he has received a message warning of individuals who are planning to meddle in their affairs. The pair agrees to go visit these individuals and teleport away from the sands of Osylith.

With all due respect to Kitty's memory, I couldn't resist the Futurama reference

Day ??

I had hoped that joining in this quest would improve my lot, but it appears that fate, if such a thing exists, continues to conspire against me as I once again find myself in an unwelcome place, despite my intention otherwise. Nemacris, they call it. I had planned to stay behind as the others foolishly forged into the unknown, partly to continue our original efforts, but mostly because I, quite frankly, don’t like the chances of a proper return. Besides, the woman is right—although I can appreciate her predicament better, perhaps, than most—this is her mission, and her’s alone. I understand the others have an ulterior motive in assisting her, but I feel it to be unnecessary, and even somewhat of an intrusion. Alas, my plans have, as usual, fallen to pieces and there is nothing left to do but venture on.

Almost immediately upon arriving, the tone of this adventure was set as I was approached by the wildling, the one infected with some manner of dark magical creature. We had recently discovered that this… parasite… was intelligent, feeding off its host’s knowledge and life force until the day it was strong enough to enter into a body of its own. My compatriot believed that, if this thing was intelligent, it could be negotiated with—he wanted answers, a sentiment I shared, and he came to me with a proposal for a plan to force communications with the creature inside him, one to which I, perhaps foolishly, agreed. I was to provide him with a poison and time enough to allow it to take effect, in hopes that the threat to their shared life would leave the parasite with no choice but to answer our questions.

Perhaps we overestimated the creature’s capabilities, or level of intelligence. Or maybe we simply misjudged its intentions. Or it could be that it simply outbluffed us, but it’s safe to say our gambit was an abject failure. The approach was flawless—the wildling announced his intentions and drank the potion, as I put a blade to his neck, threatening to cut him down if anyone, the Creature included, attempted to intervene. As the poison took hold he demanded answers to some basic questions from the parasite, but it made no sign of response. I suppose it would be inaccurate to call the move a complete failure, as it was able to confirm one lingering suspicion. As the life began to fade from my young companion, the tattooed warrior who joined us at the asylum began to collapse as well, as though their fates were inextricably linked. There could be no doubt, this man was the incomplete vessel of the dark creature.

Upon realizing that no answers were forthcoming, I slackened my hold on the young man and allowed his friends to rush forward in concern. However, any trust I held for the man who called himself Kale was now forfeit and I did not wish to see him recover. I waited until he had disappeared before providing the antitoxin. This was, I now admit, a miscalculation on my part, as the cost of this counterfeit life was all too real. Realizing my mistake, I engaged in an even bigger one, forgetting myself for only a moment, hoping to undo what I had allowed happen. But I was too late and, as always, paid a far greater price for my error than I could have guessed. It seems the creature is capable of great feats of self-preservation and, upon the death of one host, will choose another, one nearby. I carry the thing now, an indescribable weight upon my very soul. Perhaps this is proper, a memento of my lapse, a penance for my sin. A reminder—never get involved.

A dour mood took the party at this point. The parasite’s projection returned as soon as it recovered, rendering the entire endeavor moot. We took the body with us, carried by the swordman, as it would be improper to leave it in this place. I, for my part, chose not to dwell on the events, as it was not the time or the place for such things—in such an alien and potentially dangerous place, distraction would not do. The gnome, who I had worried would be an extra burden on us, given our experience in the asylum, actually proved to be most capable, and seemed to share my outlook. He traveled along beside me on a strange floating disc of his own conjuration, keeping pace effortlessly.

It wasn’t long before I began to see signs of life—objects glinting off the side of the path we traveled. The others, in their distraction, had no interest in gauging our surroundings, leaving me and my traveling buddy to investigate on our own. Fortunately their pace was not rapid and our excursions did not cause us to fall far behind. And it is to their great loss that they did not accompany me, for the investigations were most promising, indeed, albeit in a manner which deepened my concern for our safety. For the things which caught my eye were, to put it bluntly, the last remains of those who had walked this path before—and these were not mere travelers. I found many spoils of those far richer, and likely more powerful than any of us (perhaps other than the two supposed heroes of legend)—magical items of all sorts. I was fortunate to have the gnome with me, as his skills gave him great insight into the nature of the things we found.

Among the spoils was a most intriguing blade, a rapier bearing a foreign-sounding word on its hilt which, when spoken, causes it to glow with a blue magical frost. Also of note were several enchanted rings, two of which in particular struck my attention—one which caused me to disappear into thin air and another which seems to quench my hunger and thirst. Some of the other rings seem to be useful as well, but it appears there is a limit to how many can be borne by a single person. Perhaps I will share with the others, although I don’t doubt these artifacts would fetch a good deal of money from the right dealer. Before I give the impression of indiscretion, I will note that there were items I left behind, most notably a deck of cards—an odd enough find by themselves, made odder still by my companion’s immediate reaction to them, one quite similar to the one he gives the false man in our company. I am coming to trust the gnome’s instincts and did not hesitate to leave the cards where they lay. I also passed by several sets of armor which would have been too impractical to carry and, although I know that there is no rational reason for it, I find myself uncomfortable with the thought of plundering a dead man’s raiment without his consent. Despite this concern, I did find a very fine set of chainmail that I simply could not leave behind. The material and craftsmanship was nearly beyond compare and it would have been a waste to simply let it lie, particularly when it fits me so well.

I have now reached the limit, I think, of what can be considered reasonable side-tracking and am rejoining the others. I can only hope the remainder of this excursion is uneventful and that we are able to return to the world we know safely, although I do not anticipate this.

Call it fate or coincidence, it matters not. Sometimes small stories can have large consequences, for bad or for good.

It has been years and I no longer remember the exact time or place, but I do remember the important things. I remember that The Lost had recently met Chosen One Aellae, who was preparing to leave for another plane on a personal quest. She planned to go alone but allowed for the party to join her at their request to help. I also remember that this request was not unanimous. And most importantly, I remember that Thorman had recently broken a bone in his hand or arm, and needed mending before any further adventure could take place. So naturally he went to the local Church of Pelor.

He went alone, and having been through this sort of thing before, and being somewhat in a hurry, he dispensed with the usual formalities and requested healing straightforth. The cleric on staff acquiesced, noting that there would be “a small fee”. Thorman agreed, and the cleric healed his injuries. Upon finishing, the healer demanded his previously unspecified fee of 8000 gold. Now, Thorman had some small number of coins about him and the party’s shared funds as well, but all this wealth combined fell far short of 8000 gold. This was, in fact, more money than the travelers had seen collectively thus far on their journey and he mentioned something to this effect. The cleric not unreasonably insisted that 8000G was a pittance compared to the divine power of his god, and reminded Thorman that magically mending broken bones was no trivial matter. This was a fair point, but the fact remained that Thorman could not possibly give the church more money than he possessed. The solution, the holy man decided, was simple—Thorman would give the church what money he could, and send for the remainder. Until he paid, the Church would simply hold Thorman himself as collateral. Having no choice, Thorman agreed, but pointed out that he would necessarily need to leave in order to procure the funds. The church was not unreasonable on this point and agreed, so long as an agent of the church accompanied him.

It was about this time that Hubert, or perhaps it was Kitty, (my memory fails me on this point and, no discredit meant toward the person in question, but for the purposes of this story it does not much matter which it was) arrived in the church. Thorman had to do something—the group was on a timetable and had no way to get the missing funds—so he went with his instincts. He approached his friend in greeting and explained his predicament. “I think we’ll be okay though, here’s what we’re going to do,” he explained. “What I need you to do right now… is RUN!” And he punched his guard in the face and bolted out the door, companion in tow behind him.

What followed next I think anyone might guess. Members of the church gave chase, and members of the City Watch came soon after. The numbers were against our heroes, but they did not have to outrun their pursuers for long. They had an escape route to which they knew none could follow—a local magic shop, at which the remainder of the party was waiting with a scroll of planar travel to take them to Nemecris. Imagine their surprise as Thorman comes bolting in, shouting, “We’ve got to go, NOW!” No further explanation was needed as the guards were nipping at their heals. And so it was that The Lost left the material world behind for the bleak hellscape of Nemecris.

You may be asking yourself why I tell you this. You may say this story, while entertaining to be sure, is hardly an epic. But I tell you now, this one event, although at the time minor, may well have had singular and dramatic effect on the course of history. For had Thorman not brought the heavy hand of the law down upon the party that day, the rogue Kestral would not have gone to the Nemecris plane. The druid Kitty would not have perished there. The dueler Catelyn would not have been rescued. And who can say how things would change from then. One moment, shaping countless more to come.

Or shadows things that may be, only?

The hall is narrow, and long—in the light cast by the torches it seems to extend indefinitely—but the walls are brick, not cages, and after the chaos of the cells above, the silence is both a blessing and a curse. A reprieve is welcome, but nothing in this accursed place would exist without purpose, and what horrors could possibly require a corridor so deep, so thick?

The party proceeds, deliberately at first, but as they go on, impatience overtakes caution, the featureless path becoming almost frustrating in its mystery. Eventually, a change, as the walls and ceiling begin to expand, continuing outward until they can no longer be seen by single torchlight. More questions— how big does it get? What could possibly be locked away requiring such a large prison cell? Then, somehow both gradually yet suddenly, something new and far more jarring, a soft crying.

The party is conflicted—a child’s cry is a primal thing, a nigh-undeniable call to action—but in such a place as this, nothing is to be trusted. A child could not possibly be here, and only bad things could come from anything that would mimic one . Some suggest turning back, but they cannot. They cannot simply ignore this—they have to know. And then they see it, appearing before them almost spectrally—a cage.

Something is in there, that much is certain, but the cage is barely lit by torchlight, they need to get closer to see. But now that the truth looms in front of them, unease takes hold once more. The corridor was deep, presumably for a purpose—how close is too close? Eventually one of the heroes steps forward, torch in hand, to investigate. As he gazes into the cell, the crying comes to a sudden stop, and his heart nearly follows. A small figure, made even tinier by contrast to the prison in which it dwells, seemingly innocuous in a night dress. A young girl.

The hero calls out to her, asks for her name, but gets nothing in response. He steps forward, tentatively. She does the same. A few more steps and he can see her features in the light of the flame. Her long hair disheveled, as though it had been wet and never quite dried. Her skin pale, untouched by sunlight. Her eyes dark, impossible to read. He attempts again to speak to her and, again, gets no response. He raises a hand up, attempting a gesture of peace. She continues to match his movements precisely. He turns briefly beckoning his allies closer then turns back. Something seems different, although it takes him a moment to realize what has changed. The bars are suddenly behind her.

This proves too much for the Rogue—nothing good can come of this—and he turns and runs back down the corridor, to the relative state they call safety in the Asylum. The rest of the party deliberates—something is clearly very wrong here—but is it not their purpose to try and help? Time itself seems to have slowed to a crawl, every step, agonizing eternity. The tension mounts as the weight of what is happening hangs heavy over those remaining. They are nearly within touching distance when it drops, and fear overwhelms curiosity. As a group, they turn and leave.

As soon as the cage is out of sight, the crying returns. This time it evokes no concern, only heightens the fear. They increase their speed and the crying abruptly ends, only to be replaced by footsteps. The party begins to run and the footsteps accelerate in kind. She seems to be catching up, although no one dares look back. They reach the door, and not a moment too soon, slamming it closed behind them. They take a moment to collect themselves; they look for the Rogue, but he is nowhere to be seen. Eventually they assume he’s headed back up toward the main floor and resolve to go that way as well, putting as much space between themselves and this floor as possible. The Druid takes one last look back toward the now-sealed door, and lets out a strangled gasp. Impossibly, yet undeniably, there she stands.

They square off again, the party and the girl. The heroes try to ready themselves for action, but nothing in their experience has prepared them for this. Uncertain and unwilling to move first, the Druid attempts once more to reason with the creature, assure it they mean no harm, and again the creature makes no indication it comprehends. She again moves forward slowly, deliberately, and this time, with no other options, the Druid resolves to stand his ground, to see what will happen. Time is again compressed, each second a lifetime of hyper-awareness. He can see her every hair, swinging with each step, her nightgown rippling with motion, her right-hand’s fingers twitching, as though scratching at something unseeable. In this state of focus, the shock is all the greater when she suddenly shoots forward, with impossible speed, arm outstretched in front of her, aiming straight for his chest.

The Ranger reaches out and grabs his unprotected ally, shielding him from the attack, but nothing can keep her from reaching her target, as her arm passes through his armored shoulder like butter, and pierces the Druid’s heart. Both men scream in pain, but the Ranger does not drop his charge, instead shifting his grip to cradle his mortally wounded friend. The girl backs up and appears to prepare for another attack, but nobody notices, as their focus turns to the injured.

The Druid’s breath is shallow and fast and he has become pale, every scratch, scar, and blemish heightened against his pallid complexion. The hole to his heart breaks the pattern of the yet-to-heal symbol-scar of the god Erythnul that taints his chest, and it almost seems fitting. He pulls his would-be-protector close as he draws his dying breath and whispers his final words.

And Kitty blinks as the world rushes back into focus, as if waking from a dream, contained entirely within a second. He wants to cry out, to warn them all what happened, but this is not the time, it is certainly not the place. The inmates are agitated—some are crying or shouting, many more are grabbing for anything they can hold—clothing, weapons, flesh. One has a torch now. Kitty has seen this before, he knows how it will play out, knows what must be done. They need to run.